Virtua Cops One
by stickghost
Summary: An 80's R-rated buddy cop adventure... set in the (somewhat) FUTURE!
1. Enter The Woo-Tang (36 Chambers)

_A foreward: first upload here, so hopefully I didn't fuck anything up._

* * *

A ring of police cars laid siege to the World Jewelry Maxine. Officers crouched behind them with firearms leveled on the building, ready for anything to happen. Detective Becker instead pointed a pair of binoculars at the building. Through the store's massive front window he could see four guys in ski masks taking cover behind the counter with weapons of their own leveled. The store's front was entirely glass, allowing for a clear view in or out, but was of reinforced materials that kept everyone safe. Both sides were at a stalemate.

Becker noted the arrival of yet another squad car. Watching it pull up to a stop, he recognized it not as the usual police Interceptor model but rather high-powered American muscle. That was a little unusual by itself; used for highway patrol, you didn't usually see one responding to a call. What was really unusual was that the driver wasn't in uniform, but plainclothes. It all made a bit more sense when recognition dawned: the car and driver were a pair.

The new arrival sighted in on him. "Detective Becker," the man addressed him, reading off his nametag.

"Detective Hardy, isn't it?"

"My reputation precedes me," the man replied. And for good reason: Michael Hardy was indeed an officer of some note. "You the officer in charge here?"

"Until SWAT gets here."

"SWAT's tied up on a call."

"The boys from the seventh precinct are gonna take this one. So what brings you down here? I thought you weren't on street duty."

"Just thought I might be of some assistance. May I?" He held out his hand, gesturing for the binoculars. Becker handed them over. As he brought them up to his eyes, he asked, "What's the situation here?"

With a sigh, Becker briefly explained the events leading up to the present. "Robbery. A unit in the area responded to shots fired and caught these guys before they could make their escape. They exchanged fire until backup arrived." He pointed towards a squad car pockmarked with bullet holes for illustration. "Then they retreated back into the store. Attempts at negotiations have gone nowhere. Here we are now."

"There's just four suspects in there?"

"Yeah."

"They're packing automatic weapons?"

"At least two submachine guns plus handguns." Such firepower was all too common in Virtua City these days.

"There's a clerk inside too?"

"Yeah, the owner. He's wounded but alive, according to them. They said he pulled a gun on them. They won't let us take him out."

"Is there an updated ETA on SWAT?"

Hardy already seemed to know the answers to all these questions, merely seeking confirmation. "Unknown."

"When did the shots fired call come in?"

"About half an hour ago."

The other detective scowled. "What are the options for entry?"

Becker raised an eyebrow. What was this guy getting at? "Well, there's the front door... Yeah." He didn't elaborate on that option, the situation being plainly obvious. The front of the store was lined with reinforced glass designed to keep people from breaking in, criminals and cops alike. Storming the place or using snipers was out of the question. The only possible entry without destroying the glass was a single door. They'd have to funnel through the narrow opening and into a hail of gunfire- the very definition of 'chokepoint'. Once inside the store they would then have to contend with a complete lack of cover besides glass display cases. He rattled off the only other option. "The back door is reinforced and not meant to be opened from the outside. No getting in that way either. An entry is almost impossible."

"The front door locked?"

"What?" Becker was taken aback by the question.

"Is the front door locked?"

Becker threw up his hands. "Hell, I don't know. You want to go check?"

"Only way to find out," Hardy replied, dead serious. He handed back the binoculars and walked back towards his car. He reached inside and picked up a Kevlar vest from the passenger seat, then removed his coat and strapped it on.

 _He's not actually thinking about..._ However, he quite obviously was. "Oh, you gotta be shittin' me... What the hell do you think you're gonna do?"

"Protect and serve. We've got a gunshot victim in there bleeding to death while we sit out here. He might not live until SWAT arrives."

"We're gonna have TWO gunshot victims if you go in there!"

"At least," he admitted. "But that's all up to them."

"We don't know for sure if he's even still alive. You can't just go in there alone!"

"I'm not," he replied as he drew his service weapon, checked to see that it was loaded, then put it back in the holster. _Oh my god, this guy is for real..._ He stuck a pair of protectors in his ears. From the back seat he pulled out a ballistic shield. He stood for a moment, apparently having a sane moment of second thoughts about the wisdom of his planned course of action. Taking a deep breath, he turned to Becker. "Keep everybody back. Tell the paramedics to stand by."

He began walking towards the store without waiting for a response. All Becker could muster up was, "Aw Christ..."

* * *

Hardy held the shield in his left hand and drew his Guardian with the right. Constructed of carbon polymers and ceramics, the gun was surprisingly light. It almost felt more like a toy rather than a lethal weapon. But it certainly didn't feel like a toy when fired, especially to those on the other end of the barrel. It held 13 .45 ACP rounds in a clip, 14 with one in the pipe. The gun was currently in limited production, with the ones being made all going to members of a select few law enforcement agencies, the Virtua City Police Department being one of them. The weapon was almost unanimously embraced by the force. Nearly every officer carried one, save for a few old-timers who had grown attached to their previous trusty sidearms.

He could just make out a few voices around him. "Where is he going?" and, "What the fuck is that guy doing?" Approaching the store with a weapon in one hand and a shield in the other, he couldn't help but imagine himself as a modern-day knight. _Yeah, a real blue knight..._ He was now just outside the store. The robbers inside all fidgeted, watching his every move.

"He's coming in!" one yelled in an almost hysterical voice- clearly not a hardened professional.

He tapped on the glass with the barrel of the gun. "We have the building surrounded! Put down your weapons and come out with your hands up! This is your last chance _!" Well, an officer SHOULD always give them a warning first..._

"Fuck you!" one of them yelled back.

Oh well... Time for the moment of truth. If the door was locked, that would be the end of it, and he'd have to turn back, looking mighty foolish after all that buildup. However, the idea had not occurred to the robbers, as it was not. The door opened inward- he threw his weight against it. The door swung freely. Two chimes sounded. He held the shield in front of him, making sure that every part of his body stayed behind it. He had expected to be promptly greeted by a hail of bullets but the gunmen held their fire, apparently too stunned by the lone police officer's brazen actions to do anything but stare with eyes wide as golf balls.

He broke the ice. "Drop the guns and-"

That was as far as he got before the robbers cut him off. He held onto the shield for dear life as bullets crashed against it. He did nothing but stand his ground as the barrage continued unabated for several seconds, although it felt like eternity. Nearby display cases exploded in showers of glass. Firing on full-auto nonstop, the two guys with submachine guns quickly emptied their weapons. That left 'just' two handguns firing at him. One of the such-armed robbers, the man furthest to his right, ceased firing on his own accord. Apparently he was a bit smarter than his buddies and realized he was just wasting ammo. Taking advantage of the lull in firing, Michael cast the shield aside just enough so that he was still protected him from the others. With lightning-quick reflexes he leveled the Guardian, aimed, and fired- before his opponent could get another shot off. The man's head snapped back. Malefactor 1 fell against the wall and slid down.

"Shit!" somebody cursed. He pivoted and swung his weapon over to the next rightmost crook, who was still reloading his SMG. Malefactor 2 saw it coming and ducked before he fired. The bullets shattered the glass display and burrowed into the wood counter. Malefactor 3 had reloaded his Uzi by now and resumed firing. This time the weapon chattered in short bursts. _Ah, he's a quick learner..._ Michael found himself wondering exactly how many bullets the shield was rated to withstand...

Malefactor 2 popped back up with his weapon now fully loaded as well. He moved down towards the other end of the counter. That was disconcerting; they were spreading out, making it harder to keep himself shielded from everyone. Perhaps they were smart enough to try flanking him... Yep, they were. Malefactor 3 made his way down the other side of the counter. Malefactor 4 remained where he was and continued to fire ineffectually with his handgun. Michael began retreating back towards the door in order to keep the robbers in front of him. The sheer amount of lead flying around made exposing himself too risky, so he simply stuck his gun's barrel around the shield and fired at Malefactor 2, who was coming up fast on his right. The angle was wrong- the shots went wide. But they came close enough to make the shooter duck. Malefactor 3 ducked too, probably to reload. That was fortunate, because HE had to reload too.

The shield required one hand to hold, so Michael had to reload with just one. He worked quickly but calmly despite the incessant pounding of bullets. With a press of a button, the empty clip dropped out. Malefactor 2 came back up, still on the move. Now I'm really in trouble... He trapped the gun between his left arm and the body, grabbed another clip from his belt with the now-free hand, and shoved it into the weapon. He gripped the Guardian again and thumbed the release. The slide snapped shut. He was back in the fight, and not a moment too soon.

Malefactor 2 had advanced to take advantage of this vulnerable downtime, but now instead found himself caught off guard by a loaded gun pointed at him. He went down in a burst of fire. Malefactor 3 jumped onto the counter on the other side, trying the same maneuver, getting on the officer's unprotected flank. Without shifting his position, Michael crossed his right arm under his left and fired several times. With his target on an elevated surface, his shots were low, taking out the man's legs. Continuing forward on his momentum, Malefactor 3 pitched off the counter to crash headfirst into a display case. He didn't get back up.

One criminal standing. Realizing this, Malefactor 4 panicked and unloaded what was left of his clip to no effect. He ducked out of sight. Acting quickly, Michael jumped over the counter and landed two feet away from the criminal, who was just shoving a clip into his weapon. "DROP IT!" he commanded. Malefactor 4 didn't comply, instead trying to get back up to his feet as he racked his weapon. Hardy charged forward, slamming the shield into the man before he could finish. He went down, the gun flying out of his grasp. Despite the fact that he had no chance, the robber crawled desperately for his firearm. Oh for the love of... Michael aimed and fired once... The gun jumped off the floor and away from the criminal, who yelped and grabbed his hand. "Think it over, creep," he said in his best imitation of Robocop.

There was a long tense moment where neither man moved. Glass tinkled. Michael spun, swinging his gun arm around while keeping his shield between himself and Malefactor 4... Malefactor 3 was still in the game, rolling onto his back and struggling to raise his weapon with what little strength he had left... Michael fired first, second, and third. Malefactor 3 flattened against the floor, hopefully for good this time. However, the Guardian was empty once more. Seeing this, Malefactor 4 made a play for his gun. "Shit!" The man snapped up his weapon and chose flight over fight, running for the doorway to the back of the store, firing behind him for cover. Hardy managed to reload just as the crook disappeared.

He didn't know what the gunman's plan was. He could try to escape out the back, get to the clerk for a hostage play, or just simply find someplace to fortify himself. At any rate, he had to end this NOW. He ran after the fleeing robber into a small hallway with a door directly ahead and one to the left. Malefactor 4 was just ducking around the right side of the doorway ahead. He fired a shot- it took a chunk out of the doorframe. He ran forward and dove to the floor sideways, on top of the shield. It slid across the carpeted floor and carried him through the doorway. Malefactor 4 had his gun aimed at the doorway... They both opened fire... Malefactor 4 had been aiming for a higher target; his shots passed harmlessly overhead. Hardy's shots were dead on: center mass. Malefactor 4 flopped onto a desk and rolled across it, knocking a lamp, phone, and other clutter off it.

Michael stood up, leaving the shield on the floor. Keeping his weapon trained on the fallen man, he approached and kicked the gun out of his grip. The man was already unconscious, if not dead. There was a commotion in the front of the store. The rest of the VCPD was coming in- took them long enough. "Clear!" he announced, stepping back into the hall to meet the others. "There's a suspect down in the backroom..." He faltered slightly as he saw a body through the other door off the hallway. THE OWNER. He rushed into the room. An office- an empty bag in front of the safe. Apparently the robbery went to hell before cracking it. That wasn't important now.

He knelt beside the man. "Hey! Can you hear me?" The man didn't so much as stir. He put his fingers to the man's neck and felt a pulse. The man was slumped upright against a wall, and it appeared somebody had tried to staunch the wound- that was good. "WE NEED THE EMT'S IN HERE NOW!" he shouted, as much to anybody within earshot as the officer who had appeared in the doorway. He turned back to the wounded man. "Just hang on... We got you... The paramedics are on the way..." He figured the man wasn't hearing him but spoke anyway.

Somebody said, "Make way!" He didn't know who but obeyed the command all the same. A couple of paramedics rushed past him and swarmed the fallen man. There was nothing more he could do, so he left the paramedics to do their job. He walked back through the scene at the front of the store. The robbers were receiving much less attention. Two of them still lay right where they had fallen, although their guns had been secured. A pair of EMT's worked on the third, but soon gave up. Realizing that his weapon was still in his hand, he holstered it. He missed the first time- his hand was shaking. No... his entire body. I'VE BEEN HERE BEFORE.

"Goddamn..." Turning, he saw Becker approaching. He simply looked around the store for several moments before simply speaking again. "You fucked 'em up! That shit was crazy. I ain't never seen anything like that before." He fell silent again. Finally, Becker looked at him with concern. "Hey, you alright there?"

Michael must have looked as bad as he felt. He opened his mouth to respond. Instead he puked his guts out. "Jeez, man... You alright? You want a medic?"

He recovered enough to say, "No, I'm okay. I just..." _Shot four men and am crashing down from combat high?_ This wasn't his first shootout; these guys weren't the first to meet their end at his hands, though far more intense. He and his partner chased a local drug dealer for a short while before he crashed his car. The dealer fled across an open area in one direction while firing in another; they crouched behind their vehicle and fired back. It was no contest. "...feel like shit."

The paramedics wheeled the owner out of the store on a stretcher and into an ambulance. Becker asked, "Is he going to make it?"

"I don't know," Hardy replied truthfully.

"Yeah..." Becker said, as if he should have already known the answer. There were no certainties in this job, especially in matters of life and death. "Well, thanks to you, he's got a better chance now." After another period of silence, he spoke again. "I guess we should probably call off SWAT before they get here."

Somehow, after having about two hundred rounds fired at him, he found that to be the funniest fucking thing in the world.

* * *

 _DVD Commentary: I should mention that this will be neither a prequel nor a sequel to the game series, although it can be considered an adaptation._

 _Any real Virtua Cop fan knows that the original Guardian was a 6-shooter, and its successor (introduced in #3) only held 9 (10 if reloading hot) rounds. Having 6 shots was kind of a staple of shooters at the time, but it's an anachronism in the (generally) futuristic world of Virtua Cop. Hell, revolvers were already outdated even in the 90's. So I'm taking a liberty._

 _Other ideas I had for the scene:_

 _I envisioned Hardy jumping over the counter at one point shield-first and sliding down it (the shield) while shooting some sucker. Then I remembered the shield's only like 5 feet long. Oh well._

 _I also thought of Hardy actually crushing a thug under the shield, pinning him on the ground, then reaching around the shield, and shooting the trapped dude. Then I realized that it was pretty cold-blooded and rather close to an execution. Not exactly good cop behavior. What? I'm not sadistic. Stop looking at me like that._

 _I freaking LOVED this idea, but it's incompatible with the scenario I had already thought up. After realizing he is the last man standing (and that he is not Bruce Willis), Malefactor 4 reloads, sticks his gun over the counter, and blindly fires. With the shield protecting him, Hardy simply walks right up to the counter, reaches around the shield, and shoots the oblivious guy right in his hand pointblank (for a Justice Shot!) Maybe I can recycle it._


	2. Rising Sun

The jewelry store incident brought him many things. He got his 15 minutes of fame. He got the department's Medal of Valor for conspicuous bravery and gallantry in the line of duty and all that jazz. He got his name pushed to the top of the list to fill an opening for sergeancy. He got recruited by the precinct's SWAT team, who were impressed by his tactics. He also got a reputation as one crazy-ass motherfucker. The store owner said he could have a piece of jewelry of his choice- he took a rain check for now; saving it for a (purely hypothetical) future Mrs. Hardy.

But at this very moment of time, Sergeant Hardy was sitting in his police vehicle parked inside the median of Highway 101, pointing a radar gun out the window at passing traffic. His partner Detective Nick Anderson dozed off in the passenger seat, cranked all the way back. At this late (early?) hour, the traffic was relatively thin. The numbers on the scanner consistently came back in the upper 60's and low 70's- all more or less law-abiding drivers... or just really alert ones. He yawned for the thousandth time of the night. The life of a cop: 5 cumulative minutes of excitement, 10 years of pure boredom. It appeared his 5 minutes had already passed, leaving him with just another seven and a half years of pure boredom to look forward to.

A bright yellow rice burner approached. Seeing promise, he aimed the radar gun at it: 75 MPH, give or take a few due to calibration error. While deliberating whether or not to act, an equally sporty car in neon green passed by, clocking in at 73 MPH, give or take a few... acceptable margins for sure. Their close proximity suggested maybe following them would yield a ticket. Ultimately apathy won out and he decided to stay put. It paid off; a Mercedes soon cruised by doing 78. He jabbed his partner. "Hey, wake up. It's time to go to work."

* * *

Meanwhile, the yellow tuner continued down the freeway. The windows were rolled down to enjoy the nice warm summer night. The stereo blasted big beat. Like their ride, the two men inside were Japanese. They didn't speak, not that conversation would have been possible in the conditions anyway.

As they turned off onto an exit ramp and followed the winding roadway, another car that had taken the exit came up behind them at a rate much faster than the posted limit. It came up on the driver's side as if to pass but then slowed to keep pace alongside. Inside the bright green newcomer was a full load: four occupants. The one riding shotgun with arm hanging out the window looked straight at the driver of the yellow car. His expression was hard. The driver returned the glare: _Who is this assclown?_

The passenger of the green car pulled himself out of the window and sat himself onto the windowsill. One of the backseat passengers handed him something. He raised the object: a liquor bottle with a burning cloth stuck in it, and threw it through the window of the yellow car. It hit the steering column and shattered, dousing much of the car interior in flames.

The yellow car lurched out of control and careened into the guardrail. It hit head-on, spun 180°, and came to a stop. The passenger door flew open and a man tumbled out swatting at flames. He performed the standard advised procedure: stop, drop, roll. Fully engulfed in the inferno, the driver continued to thrash around in his seat, held by the seatbelt.

The green car pulled over to the shoulder and stopped as well. The driver and shotgun passenger stepped out first, followed by the rear. They were also all of Japanese descent. The similarities between the driver and the Molotov thrower were striking. They marched forward, each pulling out a handgun...

When rolling failed to smother all the flames, the yellow car's passenger managed to remove his burning jacket and throw it away. Now safe from his previous peril, the man became aware of the approaching gunmen. He saw what was coming right off and put on a defiant face. They raised their weapons. _"Konichiwa,_ bitch, _"_ the Molotov thrower quipped. They opened fire, emptying the entireties of their magazines. Molotov walked forward as he reloaded. Standing directly above the bullet-riddled man, he shot him twice more in the head, just in case.

The driver was still alive and kicking, still trapped. One of the other gunmen stepped forward with his weapon raised. Molotov held out his empty hand as if to signal STOP. "Naw, let 'em cook." He turned back to their car, with the others following suit. They calmly walked; no hurry.

Headlights came down the ramp: a civilian SUV. Molotov simply said, "Be cool," and led by example: leaning against their car, gun still held out for the whole world to see. The vehicle slowed as it approached the wreck. The driver saw them, saw their guns, and promptly accelerated out of there. "Let's go," he announced, not the least bit visibly concerned about the witness that just passed by. Once everyone was back in the car, the driver departed with a peel out.

* * *

Another ticket for the shift's tally. Hardy and Anderson were still sitting on the shoulder watching their unlucky recipient drive off when the radio crackled. "Adam-Mary-2, come in... Adam-Mary-2..."

Their call sign- Nick answered. "Adam-Mary-2 here."

"Traffic collision with a fire, no further details, on the off-ramp of exit 3-A."

"Copy. We're rolling." _Well, good thing I didn't turn off the lights yet..._ Michael thought as he got the car moving. Nick asked, "Bet you get there before the fire brigade?"

It was an old shtick they did. "A gentleman's wager?"

Nick checked his wallet. "Of course."

They had a straight shot to the scene; there was a firehouse a few blocks away- even money on who got there first. "You're on." The flaming wreck served as a beacon, the smoke and glow just visible above the dividing walls. One car was stopped nearby, the driver talking on a cell phone. There were no fire trucks or any other emergency vehicles around.

Nick snapped his finger: _rats_. "You win this one." A dollar exchanged hands. The cell phone guy waved his arms as if he wasn't certain they could pinpoint the emergency. As the car pulled to a stop, Anderson took the mic again. "Adam-Mary-2 is on scene." Michael exited the car and took a moment to fit his hat on: the very image of Calm and Collected.

The cell phone man, now sans phone, ran up: the very image of Not Calm or Collected. He pointed. "The driver... He's over there but... I think he's..."

Mike cut him off while he was between fragments. "Stay back, sir. I'm gonna check it out." The snap-crackle of the fire and approaching sirens dominated the air. The car was completely engulfed in flames and beyond the help of the fire extinguisher in their car. He couldn't see if anybody was inside, but the silence told him nobody was... or at least nobody alive. Taking a wide berth around the burning vehicle, he spotted the presumed driver on the pavement in a pool of blood, motionless.

Coming closer, he tagged the guy as dead; his forehead was _destroyed_. It must have been a hell of a crash. A quick check for a pulse confirmed his hypothesis. However, closer inspection revealed that his anticipated cause of death was incorrect. The massive head wounds were definitely not caused by the crash, and neither were the numerous chest wounds. He knew them all too well at this point: bullet wounds. This man was absolutely riddled with them.

He looked up, saw Anderson looking his way, stood and walked over. "He's dead. And not from the crash either. We've got ourselves a homicide here."

Anderson seemed skeptical. "What? You sure?"

His exasperation was only slightly diminished by the knowledge that his partner hadn't looked at the scene himself. "Either that or he accidentally shot himself while driving about 30 fucking times. He's FULL of bullet holes."

"No shit? Yeah, I'd say _that_ is probably a homicide. But Joe Citizen here says he didn't see anything."

By now the fire truck and ambulance had arrived up on the scene, a trifle late. "Call it in, I'll handle these guys." The firefighters needed no instructing and went right to work. He briefed the paramedics real quick: "He's dead." They checked the body out and came to their own conclusion: "Yep, he's dead." Mike and Nick went to work throwing down flares, closing off the ramp, and keeping the rubberneckers back. Additional units arrived on the scene.

The firefighters had the car doused in short order. One went in close to check out their work. He looked up and waved them over. "We've got another body in here!"

Emergency responders moved in. The paramedics elbowed in first. They said, "He's dead," and bowed right back out. The officers scoped the stiff, Michael included. The body was slumped over in the driver seat, charred black beyond all recognition. It was a nasty way to go, if he hadn't already been shot like his friend. It was impossible to tell what else happened in the body's current state.

However, the excitement of the crime soon waned as the dull reality of routine took over. The emergency personal whittled down to those necessary. The firefighters and paramedics left, the coroner arrived to investigate. Most of the officers who remained were tagging the evidence and doing the interesting tasks. Hardy and Anderson, being the first arrivers, were stuck with the task of maintaining the scene.

After holding the line against the first news crew to arrive, Michael recognized one car as an unmarked police vehicle pulling up. Out stepped a blond-haired man, immaculately clad in dress pants, suit coat, white shirt, and tie. He wasn't brass- clearly way too young to have gotten that far. His boyish good looks quickly led to recognition. _Well, well, it seems Pretty Boy caught this one..._

* * *

Detective James Cools approached the yellow tape, reaching for his credentials. Identification proved unnecessary- one of the officers standing watch was already lifting the tape up for him. He also recognized him right off: the World Jewelry Maxine Robbery hero, Sergeant Michael Hardy. Also known by the nickname Rage, no doubt due to his quick temper and passionate (often vulgar) commentary on things he didn't like. James spoke first. "Sergeant."

"Detective. You're catching this squawk?"

"That's right. You the first on scene?"

"Right. Not much to tell you. The civilian standing over there is the one who called in the 911." A pointing accompanied the sentence. "We got his statement; he's just the reporter, not a witness. Everything was as it is now, except for the car being on fire."

"Got it."

Having laid out the situation, the Sergeant went back to crowd control. James took in the scene. At a distant glance it looked like a normal if horrific traffic accident. A series of tire marks clearly indicated the course the car took before coming to a stop. The concrete barrier bore a scar from where the careening vehicle crashed into it. That was all he could make out from the panoramic, so he went in close. The coroner and the body he was looking over was his first choice. The coroner was facing away and occupied, but he was still able to recognize who it was. "Leon," he announced.

"James. You working this one?"

"Yeah."

"Well, this one is easy," the coroner replied, getting straight to business. "The cause of death is numerous bullet wounds to the chest and the head," he said, obviously referring to the body at his feet. "The one in the car is completely burned to a crisp. I'll need to conduct an autopsy to tell you anything better than that."

James glanced around while Leon talked. Not far from the body was marked evidence: more spent casings. A whole lot, too many to count at once. The pool of blood around the body was dispersed pretty evenly around. This guy didn't move or was moved after the shooting. "This might be a silly question, but... it happened here? What's the time of death?"

"Correct you are. This body is as fresh as you can get. It hasn't been here long."

As expected. A crime committed here wouldn't go unnoticed for long even at this hour. It was a bold shooting- the murderer(s) could have easily been caught in the act. "Do we have an ID on them?"

"This one's license lists him as one Isao Nakamura. Nothing survived on the other's person. However, the car is registered to a Makoto Okawa."

James knelt down and checked the body out. It was as Leon said: riddled with holes in the chest and a pair in the head. There was nothing else to glean that he didn't already hear from the coroner.

He walked over to the empty shells and picked through a few of them. They all appeared to be 9mm but the sheer amount of them suggested more than one shooter. There were well over 30 shells, maybe even 50. If there was only one killer, then he REALLY wanted this guy dead.

Next up was the car and its occupant. Both were completely burnt out. The driver was still buckled in. He hadn't left the vehicle. And... that was all he could tell. He had never dealt with burnt bodies before.

Inspection of the car was limited to the cab. The glove box was warped shut from the heat and all the means to open the trunk had perished in the fire. Everything inside had melted down into unidentifiable lumps. The only things recognizable were bits of glass, mostly from the car's windows. However, one piece, though deformed, clearly didn't belong among the rest of the shards. It was cylindrical in shape and had something else stuck inside. It wasn't hard to identify as the mouth of a bottle with a cloth or rag stuffed inside: one homemade firebomb. A Molotov cocktail. The ignition method was now known.

With the car down, James did a final look around the scene. The only other item of interest was a pair of tire tracks that didn't come from the victims' car, thus probably the killer's. The tracks were short and went more or less straight forward. Perhaps hard braking, or maybe peeling out- a flashy move to pull after a double-homicide.

Overall summary: a murder executed (at least partially) from moving vehicles. Unless this was some serious road rage, the scenario and the overkill pointed to a hit. A gangland slaying? Virtua City had a significant yakuza presence; make them some possible perpetrators and/or victims. The victim's background checks would hopefully provide some insight as to why somebody would waste them on a highway.

Figure it preliminary: the victim first party is cruising along when the hostile second party comes along. Second party runs first party off the road or maybe does a drive-by while in motion- either way, first party crashes, second party stops to finish the job. First party passenger gets out of the car or is pulled out- either way, he's shot to death. First party driver: sequence of events unknown- probably shot too, but not removed from the car for some reason; maybe knocked unconscious or otherwise incapacitated by the crash and executed right there and then, maybe already dead. First party car is torched afterwards because... why? Just as a final "Fuck you"? To destroy the bodies or evidence? They left one body behind. Maybe they got spooked and left early? The details aside, the events played.

Gut feeling: _This is going to be a good one..._

Back at the station James was on his way to the detective's bullpen when another officer flagged him down. "Hey Detective, you're the one working the highway killing, right?"

"That's right."

"Good timing. We've got a witness. I was just gonna go take his statement, but since you're here I suppose you might want to have the first crack at him?"

"I do." The paperwork would have to wait; this was hotter.

"The guy's name is Nathan Barrows. I'll show him to your desk."

"Thanks." James grabbed a free chair and placed it at the other side of his workstation, then sat down to wait for the witness to arrive. The officer reappeared and pointed a man in his direction. "Mr. Barrows?"

"Yeah." Standard square john type- they may be here voluntarily but they're still wary.

"Sir, I'm Detective Cools. I'm working the case," he said by way of introduction. "Have a seat." Nathan did so. "You were on the 101 earlier this night?"

"Yeah."

"What time was this?"

"About 1:30."

The answer fit. It begged his next question: "But you didn't stick around?"

Nathan got defensive. "Hey, _they had guns_. I got the hell right out of there."

This was looking promising. "Understandable. Let's start at the beginning... Did you see what happened?"

Nathan got uncertain. "Yeah… well… no."

"You mean you didn't see the actual incident?"

Nathan got firm. "No."

"What exactly _did_ you see?"

"There was a car burning on the side of the road... There were these four guys standing around... And another person was just lying on the ground."

It was getting good. "You're sure? You saw four guys standing and just one victim on the ground?"

"Yeah, that was all I saw."

So this citizen also came after the fact, but only just. Still, he actually saw something. "The four people that you saw... do you think you could describe them?"

"I don't think so. I didn't get a good look at them."

"Well, what _can_ you tell me about them?" The witness was clearly trying to search his memory for details. A little prompting was needed. "Let's start with the basics. Were they all male?"

"Yeah."

"Could you tell what race they were?"

"They were all white."

"Could you be more specific, like Caucasian or Hispanic?"

"They looked Asian."

Bam- the victims were Japanese. If this was yakuza business it fit. "That's good. How about their ages?"

A shrug. "In their 20's or 30's, maybe. I don't really know. They looked young."

"Now, can you name any individual characteristics?" Once again the witness was overwhelmed. James diplomatically ventured a guiding question, "Like say, hair color?"

"It was too dark to see. Three of them had dark hair... One had lighter hair... They all had normal-looking haircuts... That's the best I can do."

"How about facial hair?"

"No... I don't think they had any."

"Heavy-built guys or skinny?"

"They were all average-looking."

"Any other distinguishing features, like tattoos or scars?"

"Nothing I could see."

The suspects seemed to be tapped out. He changed the subject. "You mentioned the burning car; were there any others nearby?"

"Yeah, there was another there."

"Could you describe it?"

Now the witness perked up. "Yeah, I could tell you about _that_."

Pay dirt. "Make and model?"

The witness deflated. "Well, I don't know that..." Then he perked back up. "But it really stood out. It was a really sporty decked-out car, probably Asian, bright neon green. It was some real Fast and Furious shit."

Potentially solid. If the car was distinctive enough, it might be findable. "That's a very good start, but could you nail any other characteristics? Like: coupe, sedan, hatchback?"

"Uh... coupe, I think. Maybe it was a four-door."

"How about any modifications or decorations?"

"It had a racing wing on the trunk... I think that's it."

"No fancy lights or other distinctive features?"

"No. I'm sure I would have noticed."

Rats. It wasn't THAT obvious. "I don't suppose you got a look at the license plate?"

"You gotta be kidding."

"Had to ask. Well, you've been a big help to us anyway." James handed over his business card. "If you happen to remember anything else, give me a call." As the witness left, he mulled over what he had just heard. Witnesses weren't exactly renowned for their accuracy as to what actually happened but at least some of what he said seemed solid.

Now it was time to begin the paperwork, but he jumped ahead on a hunch. Running the victims' names through the database yielded hits, big-time. He recognized Nakamura from his picture. Okawa was less definitive. The general stats matched; add burned skin from head to toe and you could get Okawa. Then again, you could have anyone. Both men had something in common: both were suspected yakuza, specifically soldiers of the Nakayama-gumi. Aside from association with other known members they were clean. Their murders implied they were indeed tight enough with the underworld to be targets.

The other matter was to look into the suspect vehicle. He hit up the vehicle database for a search of registrations within the city. The search engine made use of various key characteristics: make; model; manufacturer; color; body type. It was an extremely valuable tool for making ID's in cases of limited information such as this instance. However, it could only do so much when the search parameters were as broad as "sports car" and "green". This was going to be a looooooooooooooooooooong list. Playing a hunch, he limited the search to just Japanese manufacturers to narrow the search. Loyalty was big in Japanese crime families; hopefully they extended to domestic companies. It was a start, albeit not a very good one. Search- click.

With the search going on, it was paperwork time. He opened one of his desk drawers and took a roll of Smarties off the top of several stacked rows. He ripped one end off and dumped the entire roll into his mouth. Then he got typing. Once the initial report was all filled out and filed, he returned to the search. He was not disappointed; the search yielded an ungodly long list of possible matches for the suspect vehicle. He was going to need a bigger sugar burst to sift through what was coming. He hit up his desk stash and administered another roll.

He wanted to whittle down the possibilities some more. Further playing the hunch, he scanned the list and singled out the Japanese names on the list. He ran checks on them for criminal records. Some came back dirty. The majority of the results were car-related offenses: moving violations and some street racing; sadly nobody had any priors for drive-by shootings or firebombings. Eventually one hit jumped out of the results at him: an identified member of the Toshihiro-gumi. No arrests or convictions on record, but with dead yakuza victims, a yakuza possible suspect warranted a further look. He went back to the name: Yagi Takeshi.

This was hot... and heavy. He printed out a copy and went to see his commanding officer: Lieutenant Hunter. In addition to overseeing Homicide, the Lieutenant also commanded the precinct's SWAT unit. He rapped on the door of Miles' office.

The answer: "Enter." He did so. The Lieutenant said, "James, you look like you've got something."

"Yes, something good. You're familiar with the case I'm working right now?"

"I should be, since I assigned it to you just hours ago."

"Right. Both of the victims are suspected members of the yakuza. An eyeball witness gave me a description of the suspect vehicle that I got a possible match for. The owner of the car is another yakuza, from a different family."

Miles frowned. "The Nakayama and Toshihiro families?" Although the response was phrased as a question, the Lieutenant sounded pretty certain.

James was surprised. "You know?"

"It's not a hard guess. There are only two Japanese crime families operating in this city and that's them. This was all way before you transferred here, but in the city's infancy they both set up shop here and fought each other for dominance. The Nakayama clan was bigger, stronger, and better connected. The Toshihiro though, were more vicious. They fought tooth and nail for even just a small piece of the city. The Nakayama family decisively won in the end, while the Toshihiro were greatly reduced in number. Luckily for them, the Nakayama clan wasn't keen on continuing the war and sought to negotiate a ceasefire. Even those mad dogs knew when to take an olive branch offered. It wasn't exactly the greatest deal they got though. While the Nakayama family lets them operate their own turf autonomously, they take a cut out of all their profits."

He took it all in. A vicious crime family chaffing under the thumb of another- it wasn't hard to use the imagination. "I don't suppose the Toshihiro like that very much."

"You're damn right they don't. It's the greatest level of shame these guys can know."

"You think that-"

Miles cut him off. "I don't _want_ to think about what this could mean. Their last war was ugly enough."

"So how do we proceed on this?"

The Lieutenant's response wasn't entirely unexpected. "With big guns."

* * *

The Kabukicho Grill: biggest restaurant in Little Tokyo. The owner, Hiroshi Iizuka, stood on the upper level, looking down at the dining area, currently packed near to capacity. He remained there for a minute before turning away and heading for the presidential banquet room. The room was not set up for a feast; it was configured strictly for business. Instead of a table and chairs, five big luxury chairs were positioned about the middle of the room: four positioned on either side of a carpet running down most of the room across from each other and one at the end.

In addition to being the manager of a restaurant, Iizuka was also the current chairman of the Nakayama clan. The patriarchs of all the subordinate families were already present: Hayao Daisuke, Sasaki Nakahara, Oba Hideki, and Nagoshi Kazuma. The room was silent as he entered. The men stood at attention and bowed as he walked past to his own seat at the end of the room. He sat down. Everyone else did so a moment later. Then he spoke. "I suspect that everyone already knows why we're all here. You may have heard the rumors. It's true: two of our brothers were killed last night."

The men's reaction showed they already knew. Hideki asked, "Do we know by whom?"

"Who do you think?" Kazuma's response was instantaneous and wholly predictable. He was a man known for his viciousness, not sense or patience. He had a reputation for personally doling out brutal bare-fisted beatings as punishment. Once he had a target his first order of business would be to go out for blood. It didn't help that both of the deceased were his men.

Iizuka's first order of business was to nip Kazuma's bloodlust in the bud. He replied to Hideki's question as if the outburst hadn't occurred. "No. We don't know who's responsible."

Kazuma raged. "The hell we don't! The Toshihiro want us gone! Always have. They would have gotten rid of us all earlier if they could have. We fought them before, remember?"

Hideki questioned. "Yet our families have been working together ever since. Why now, after 15 years of peace?"

Daisuke reasoned. "The Toshihiro are a shadow of their former organization. Their strength is a fraction of ours. We greatly outmatch them in every conceivable way. They'd be fools to start another war with us now."

Kazuma was unswayed. "They _are_ fools. We were far stronger when they went to war with us the first time too and it didn't detour them then. They're a bunch of bloodthirsty animals. You can't expect reason from them." Nobody commented on the attendant irony of such a statement coming from him. It would have been an unwise action.

"Enough," Iizuka said firmly. "That is precisely why we must tread lightly. If the Toshihiro are not behind this act, a show of force will turn our relationship hostile. They are not the only other criminals in this city. Others might want to see us harmed."

Kazuma turned to the final member of the meeting who had not yet spoken. "Nakahara! Weigh in!" he beseeched. "Where do you stand?"

Nakahara and Kazuma often saw things eye-to-eye. They went back- all the way back to childhood. The pair started committing crimes together in their teenage years before becoming yakuza. Both were fond of using violence to solve problems. Nakahara had more sense and served as the brains of the duo while Kazuma was strictly the brawn. Nakahara learned restraint easily when they joined the family. Kazuma learned restraint begrudgedly, mostly at the 'insistence' of the rest of the family- it was bad for business. As it stood, Nakahara was quite possibly the most respected of subordinate patriarchs, if not by admiration, fear.

Nakahara didn't answer right away, as if deliberately milking the tension in the room. Finally he said, "I agree with our chairman. It's the right call; we can't just act precipitously against the Toshihiro." There was a sizable silence as Kazuma was defeated. The man looked almost betrayed. "However, we all surely must admit the fact that the Toshihiro are still the most likely culprits. They have the motive, the drive, and despite their weakened state still have a significant force. And what's more, word is that they've been stockpiling an arsenal recently."

Everyone exchanged glances. Kazuma snapped out of his defeated funk. It seemed they hadn't heard that rumor. " _Whose_ word?" Daisuke asked.

Nakahara shrugged. "It's just the word on the streets. Maybe it's true, maybe not."

Iizuka rubbed his temples. "That doesn't change anything about our current situation. If the Toshihiro want another war, then so be it. We don't. We'll do what we have to, but we will not enter into open conflict unless we have to. We have very little to gain in another full-out war but much to lose. Tell all of your men to keep their distance until we can have a meeting. There is to be no direct approach on the Toshihiro. No bracings. No leaning on them. Everybody stays out of their turf. If you see one on ours, leave him be." The room was silent. Hideki, Daisuke, and Nakahara vibed reception. He looked straight at Kazuma. "Is that understood?"

The man stopped fuming long enough to put on his most composed face. "I understand."

* * *

 _DVD Commentary: In Japan, their naming scheme is reversed. I was aware of this but totally forgot about it when choosing names so… If you're wondering if the names I've used are meant to be first and last- American style, or last and first- Japanese style? I don't know; I chose them at random. It probably doesn't matter, unless the names happen to be strictly for first or last but I wouldn't know._

 _I kind of decided somewhere along the line that the Lieutenant was the somewhat-important-but-unnamed cop that shows up in the third game a couple times and says a few lines. I remembered him as black though._

 _Yeah, a yakuza named Kazuma is no coincidence. The characterization is a bit different; SEGA's own Kazuma is much mellower and a lot less bloodthirsty. But on the other hand he is by no means a pacifist as he brooks no shit and has no qualms with administering a (not lethal but certainly violent) beat down if he feels you deserve to be taught a lesson (Insurance fraud? Animal abuse? Theft? YO' ASS IS GONNA GET BEAT!) even though he could probably just put most dudes into headlocks or simply pin them down or otherwise peacefully subdue them. So perhaps it's more like he's taken up to 11. Also: SEGA references throughout the story- see how many you can catch!_


	3. Cold Cuts

An interlude: the search warrant was being processed and the raid strategy was being coordinated- the suspect rated dangerous. With some time to himself, James went home and crashed on his couch. Waking up several hours later, he showered, ate a brunch, and headed right back out. On the way to the station he detoured to the morgue- Leon should have something. He badged the receptionist. "Homicide. Is Deputy Nobles available?"

The woman only looked up for a total of about one second before returning to whatever task she was performing on the computer. "He's in Autopsy 2."

He found the coroner in the specified room, a pair of familiar bodies laid out and chopped up a bit. He did not look particularly busy at the moment. "Leon, you finished looking over the bodies?"

"Well, somebody's in a hurry. It's too early for any test results but I got a few things to show you. Take a look at THIS." Leon reached underneath Nakamura and propped him up on his side, revealing his back. A massive elaborate tattoo covered almost all of the skin area. The focal point of the design was a giant red dragon. It was once an impressive work of art, although now it was somewhat marred by the presence of numerous bullet holes in it. "Pretty serious ink work, eh?"

"Yeah, and he's a pretty serious customer too. Elaborate tattoos like this are very common among those in yakuza crime families."

The deputy coroner did a double-take. " _Yakuza?_ You telling me that this guy is a yakuza?"

" _Was_ a yakuza."

"Cool. I've seen some gangbangers and even a mobster or two, but I ain't never seen a yakuza before. Well then, that might provide some context as to how these two were killed. It's obviously not your average homicide, not the least of which because it's a double killing, but anyway... As I previously determined, this man was killed by numerous gunshot wounds. All told, he was shot 41 times; mostly in the torso, two in the head. All of the chest shots were done from a distance. The headshots were done up close and personal." The coroner pointed a finger gun downward at the corpse's head for illustration. "Finishers. Aside from that, he had only superficial burns on him. Looks like he managed to escape the blaze, but his friend wasn't so lucky."

James felt a tingle. _He managed to escape the fire?_ "What about the other one?"

"The other guy," Leon said pointing to Okawa, "is a completely different story. He wasn't shot. I think this man died from his burns."

"You sure?"

"I've poked around inside him and found absolutely NOTHING; no bullets or any kind of significant internal damage. There were only some relatively minor injuries, likely resulting from the crash. Maybe something will come up in the toxicology test; otherwise I see no other cause of death."

"Jesus." The Molotov cocktail- it wasn't meant to torch evidence after the fact, but the victims outright. One burns, one escapes- the killers fall back on option B: guns. Fire was a drawn-out, agonizing method of murder. It took a special kind of person to be capable of such an act.

While James mulled over all of this, Leon got tired of waiting. "A penny for your thoughts?"

"The killers torched the car with a Molotov cocktail. The victims were both intended to be burned alive. This one managed to escape, this one didn't," James said, pointing at the appropriate bodies. "So the killers shot him instead."

"Yes, that would certainly fit my findings. What a nasty bit of work. Is this method of killing also something the yakuza specialize in?"

"I wouldn't put it past them."

* * *

Sergeant Hardy and his partner got the call: SWAT team, assemble. It was a welcome deviation from their current patrol duties. They returned to the station, got suited up, and hit the muster room. Most of the unit was already in the room. Naturally, SWAT commander Lieutenant Hunter was present as was Sergeant Gwydion, second-in-command. The other members were Officers Andrews and Spartan, as well as Detectives Yoshida, Burns, Donovan, Rainsford, and Brandstatter, making 11 out of the 15 SWAT members in the unit present. Plus one: also sitting in at the back of the room was none other than Pretty Boy Detective Cools.

Hunter stood at the podium, waiting as the team showed up. "Well, glad you guys could join us. Either of you two happen to see Cavanaugh on the way in?"

Michael replied, "Yep. We told him that it was an emergency, so he's only gonna take a one-hour shower." Cavanaugh had a bit of a cleanliness obsessive-compulsive-disorder. There was no such thing as a 'quick rinse' with him; it was no surprise he'd be the last one to show up. Eventually Officer Cavanaugh made his appearance. 12 out of 15 present now- that was all SWAT members currently on active duty.

Hunter clearly thought about making commentary on the tardy arrival however he apparently decided to let it slide. "All right, now that everybody's finally here let's get down to business. We've got ourselves a high-risk warrant to serve." The room went dim and the giant wall monitor lit up, displaying a mug shot of a decidedly mean-looking man of Asian descent along with his name and statistics. "The suspect is one Yagi Takeshi. He's wanted as a suspect in a double homicide, and a rather violent one at that. He has no convictions on record, but he's a known associate of the Toshihiro crime family. Now I'm sure that everyone here is all well aware of how volatile those guys are." He paused for a moment to let it sink in. "Takeshi lives by himself, but the evidence says he had three accomplices in the crime, so there is the possibility that we may encounter the others too. So in other words, be ready for anything on this one, team. That's why we're handling this." He allowed for another pause before asking, "Any questions?"

No hands went up. "Okay. It's standard procedure; two teams. Anderson, Hardy, Andrews, Spartan, and Burns... You're with me on Red Team. Everyone else is Blue Team. In case you haven't noticed, the new blood in the department is with us on this one. He's the one working the investigation. If you haven't yet been acquainted, meet Detective James Cools."

Everyone already knew. He wasn't THAT new- his arrival was months ago. A few guys gave him a quick glance over the shoulder and/or a half-hearted wave. Hardy didn't even bother. "Don't mind them, it's nothing personal," Hunter explained. "This is a pretty serious unit-" That generated a couple snickers. "-so we don't really do greetings. Now then, enough of the horseshit; let's move!"

They rolled out: SWAT in their van; Pretty Boy solo in his own car. The SWAT team locked and loaded en route. An undercover unit was waiting for them at the place, staking it out in the meantime. No activity had been reported at the house for quite some time. Their suspect might be home, maybe not. Nearing the destination, Hunter gave short and succinct instructions: "Red Team's got the front, Blue's on rear. We're not knocking." Gwydion took time out from checking over his weapon to give a thumbs-up as an affirmation.

Takeshi lived in a home in the residential sector on the outskirts of the city. The street was quiet; nobody was out frolicking on their front lawn. All the better for them. They parked a few houses short of the target. They poured out the rear doors and hit the pavement running. Red Team dashed straight across front lawns and driveways. Blue Team ran between houses and cut through backyards to get to the backdoor. The plainclothes and some additional uniforms would keep a perimeter if by some chance the suspect managed to slip out of the house.

"Alright, kid... Stay back and don't get your head blown off," Michael said for the benefit of Pretty Boy as they ran past his car.

Red Team crossed the front yard of the Takeshi residence. The windows were covered by blinds- no way to see inside. There was no audible noise coming from inside. Red Team climbed onto the porch and stacked up on the sides of the door. Hunter and Anderson were at the front of the lines; Andrews and Hardy were next, while Spartan and Burns brought up the rear. Anderson was carrying an M4 shotgun; everyone else packed MP7 submachine guns. Andrews lugged a battering ram on his back.

They ticked off several seconds to allow Gwydion's team to get around to the backdoor. Michael strained his ears but still heard nothing inside. More seconds passed- nothing seemed to be going on inside. Blue Team signaled they were in position, and their leader gave the word: "Go!" Andrews unslung the battering ram and held one end; Michael took the other. They did two dry swings for momentum, then reared the ram as far back as possible and swung it forward for all they were worth, aiming for the lock. It was perfect- one swing shattered it. Hunter and Anderson went inside, each swinging around a side of the doorway. Andrews and Hardy dropped the ram and followed suit. Hunter announced, "POLICE!"

The team emerged into a front room with the usual amenities: TV, couch, coffee table, bookshelves. No occupants though. 2 doorways led out- Miles, Andrews, and Spartan took one while Anderson, Hardy, and Burns went through the other. A table and chairs suggested the next room was the dining room. Nobody here either. The kitchen was adjacent, the rooms separated only by a counter. Three occupants within: all members of Blue Team coming in through the other entrance. The kitchen was a bit of a mess and featured a dark puddle on the linoleum floor. It looked like it could have been blood but the room smelled sweet. They all stepped around the puddle but crushed some unseen glass underfoot.

It was just a one-floor house; the unit had it searched in about five seconds flat. Both element leaders said "Clear," a second apart. That just left one door in the home, which by its location could have only lead to the connected garage. They stacked up by the remaining door. The SWAT commander tried it. Unlocked- he pushed it open to reveal a darkened room. The team waited a moment. Nothing happened. Hunter signaled Anderson, who hit the doorway and flashed on his tac-light. He swiped his hand along the wall next to the door and hit the light switch. The team went all in.

The garage was single-car-sized. Apart from a few shelves stocked with car-related paraphernalia, the place was empty. Hunter gave the final word: "All clear!" Walking around, Michael hit an oversized button above the light switch. The big garage door rolled up to reveal Detective Cools standing in front of the house. He could only give him a shrug. The Lieutenant had a bit more to offer. "We've got no suspect, and no suspect vehicle here. It looks like our bird has flown the coop. We'll put out an APB on him. It's your show now here Detective." To the rest of them he said, "Take five, team."

James took the disappointment well. Without a word he went into the house. Michael and several of the other SWAT members followed. Donovan and Rainsford were kneeling and standing, respectively, over the mess on the kitchen floor. "What is that?"

"Don't get all excited now," Donovan said, "it's just some spilled cherry preserves." He pointed out the remains of a broken bottle scattered around the substance on the floor, label included. Also strewn about the counter were what appeared to be the shelves to the refrigerator. The spill was located almost directly in front of the refrigerator. Somebody had apparently cleaned it out in a hurry. But why?

James clearly was thinking along the same lines, as he looked over at the refrigerator. Everyone else followed his gaze. A basic kitchen fixture had somehow become infinitely fascinating. Being the one closest to the appliance, Michael stepped forward and grabbed the handle. A distinct movement from behind got his attention. He looked back to see Andrews with his weapon at the ready. " _Seriously?_ "

Andrews flushed but stood firm. "Whatever, man. Just fucking open it."

He did. Perhaps Andrews wasn't being so paranoid; there WAS somebody hiding inside. "Oh shit." He caught at least two echoes from behind. The refrigerator man didn't look very comfortable, in a sitting position with his legs jammed up and arms folded, despite his relatively small size and the fact that the fridge had been emptied out for more room. He didn't look particularly healthy either. A quick feel for vital signs confirmed it. "He's _cold_." Realizing James was looming over his shoulder, he stepped aside. "Sorry, I suppose it's _your_ investigation."

James reached in and turned the man's head to face their direction. It made an audible cracking with rigor mortis. The cause of death became immediately apparent: one bullet to the forehead. "That's our man," he announced. "So he didn't ditch us after all." Noticing something else, he lifted up one of the dead man's arms and pulled it out for better viewing. The hand had a distinct lack of fingers. He dropped the arm, reached for the other hand. It was also devoid of even a single digit.

Burns went, "Ew."

"Uh, he's supposed to have some, right?" Michael asked. "I don't recall 'fingerless' being in the suspect description."

"Yeah, he's supposed to have fingers," James dryly confirmed. "They've all been hacked off."

"Well _da-yum_. Who'd do something like that?" Anderson asked.

" _Yubitsume,_ " James answered.

"Who?" Michael and Anderson asked at once.

" _Yubitsume..._ Not who, what. It's the name of a yakuza ritual. In the event a member fails his family or otherwise commits a serious offense-"

Michael knew what the act was from some movie he watched. Apparently it wasn't just some legend. "He cuts off a finger as an offering of appeasement," he finished.

"Right. Or maybe more, depending on the seriousness of the offense."

"You mean like killing members of another crime family unprovoked?"

"Yeah, that would probably qualify. Apparently he didn't have enough fingers for repayment."

"Okay, I just want to be sure here..." Cavanaugh started. "You are NOT seriously suggesting that this guy willingly chopped off all his own fingers, right?"

There was a rather awkward pause. Andrews was the first to answer, probably eager to make up for earlier. "Of course he didn't cut off ALL of his own fingers, dumbass." He allowed for a beat before adding, "He'd need somebody else's help to cut off the last one."

Rainsford jumped in. "Well actually… It might be possible if he was holding the knife in his mouth and..." He illustrated this scenario by placing a hand on the counter and acting out his idea of how the sawing was done, complete with (questionably accurate) vocalization: "HYURGH-HYURGH-HYURGH!"

Andrews kept it rolling. "Yeah, that might work. Or maybe he used one of those fancy paper cutters..." He put one hand flat on the counter and mimed the act of raising and dropping the blade with the other. "KA-CHOOF!"

Michael couldn't resist. "Or perhaps he used a table saw..." He put his hands on the counter and pushed them like a piece of wood towards an imaginary blade. "BZZZZZZ-NEEEEEEYOOOOOOOW!"

Most of the SWAT members present started cracking up at some point. Even the professional Gwydion succumbed, although he seemed to be trying pretty hard not to. "Jesus, what is wrong with you guys?" Burns asked, clearly more disgusted than amused by the joke content. Pretty Boy on the other hand just looked almost _confused_ , as if he had been presented with a ridiculously hard question. "Isn't there something else for you guys to be doing right now?"

"Isn't the coroner supposed to examine the body before you start messing with it?" Hardy asked back. Several people went, _"Oooooohhhhhh..."_ James did not look amused.

Hunter's voice announced his reappearance and defused the faceoff. "Okay people, let's leave our fellow brother alone so he can work. We are out of- is that a hand sticking out of the fridge?"

* * *

Peace at least- James had the scene to himself now. He continued his search. The freezer yielded no additional surprises. It held only decidedly more expected contents: ice cream, steak, and frozen vegetables. He had a corpse on his hands, but as for a crime scene?

SWAT had seen nothing that suggested a murder when they cleared the place. After walking throughout the house himself, neither did he. So he went back over the place again with a UV flashlight. Still nothing. For a killing involving mutilation, the place was surprisingly clean. He couldn't even find anything resembling a blood trail by the refrigerator. The body being wrapped in plastic would account for a cleaner killing, but not THAT clean. Aside from a lack of blood there were no signs of a disturbance. Unless the killer was an expert at cleaning up, it would seem that the crime didn't happen here.

He was still conducting his fruitless search when the coroner showed up. Leon was catching again. He knew because Nobles announced his arrival. "County Corpse Cleanup! Somebody order a pickup?"

He met the coroner. "This way."

"Well, we meet again, Detective. I presume this is related to your case? You got another dead yakuza for me?"

"Yeah. He's our suspect for killing the other two guys at the morgue. Now somebody's punched his ticket as well."

"Ooh, sounds like a retaliation killing."

"That's what it looks like."

He led Leon into the kitchen as they talked. They stood for a few moments before the coroner asked, "So, where's the body?"

"In the fridge."

"Really?" Leon opened the door and took a look. "Goddamn..." Obviously he had noticed the amputated fingers. "I assume you already looked at the body?"

"Yeah. Anything you can tell me right now?"

"What, you mean like _besides_ the obvious? No. Somebody either made either my job easier or harder. The body has been preserved rather nicely in this thing. If it's all the same to you, I'd like to just take this guy right in."

"Go right ahead."

With the body being taken care of and a general sweep of the house done, it was time to go in-depth. He started in the bedroom- the logical place to find things. He rifled through the dresser drawers and closet. He tossed laundry and dug in pockets. The search turned up a stack of money: a cold two thousand. He had no idea if it was meant for anything in particular or if was just some money on hand for sudden unexpected expenses. Lifting the mattress revealed a Browning 9mm- the same caliber that was used in the murder.

A cursory search of the rest of the house turned up nothing of note. He turned to thinking. As to the identity of the killer, theories ran easy. It was street justice. A Toshihiro goon suspected of murdering two rival Nakayama family thugs winds up dead. Simple gangland procedure: you kill one of ours, we kill you. It seemed that the Nakayama clan had simply got to the suspect before they did. It was a bit disconcerting that a crime family was apparently able to solve a case before they did.

Another question: the suspect is here, but where's his car? It was the reason they were led here in the first place. It was out there somewhere else, sitting left behind in some lonely place, or the killer took it as a souvenir. It was a nice car, true, but keeping such a distinct ride would be an unwise move. Perhaps the APB could still serve a purpose.

After writing up all the necessary investigative reports back at the station, James paid his second visit of the day to the morgue- that was a new record for him. Nobles was just washing his hands. "Detective. You're a bit early; I've only done the preliminaries."

"I guess that will do. What have you got?"

"Well, I guess we'll start with the curious case of the missing fingers."

"It's _yubitsume_."

"Say what now?"

James sighed. "In short, the missing fingers are a legendary form of punishment in yakuza circles."

"Ah. Yes, I think I've heard about that somewhere. So, is it like a method of torture or something?"

"Not exactly. As far as I know the mutilation is generally supposed to be self-inflicted and voluntary. It's a form of redeeming one's own honor."

"Well, these amputations were definitely NOT self-inflicted."

"Yeah, I kind of figured that," James said with perhaps a touch too much sarcasm. "But how can you tell?"

"As I was going to say before you interrupted me, our man simply couldn't have possibly done the deed himself. The fingers were cut off post-mortem."

That was a strange piece of information. The killing reeked of retribution. And while it still certainly was, it was also merciful. Their own men were subjected to a violent death by burning, so one would have expected reciprocity. Removing all of someone's fingers one by one would have made for one hell of a payback, if you were sadistically-minded. The victim being already dead removed a good deal of the purpose. "I wouldn't have expected that. At least they spared him a whole lot of agony. I guess even evil has some standards."

"I don't know about that... I have a feeling that mercy wasn't the reason for that."

"Then what was?"

"Dead bodies don't bleed. Less mess that way. There was no blood at the house, was there?"

"No, there wasn't. Nor any signs of a struggle."

"No sign of any struggle on this guy either. It looks like they got the jump on him. They shot him, then cut off the fingers. FFFT!" Nobles traced a line across the fingers on one hand to illustrate- _déjà vu_. "Just like that. But I don't think that's where the deed took place either. This body was moved after death some time later."

All those forensics classes told him what Leon was talking about. "Lividity?"

"Right you are. Secondary lividity indicates the body was lying on its side for some time before being moved."

Assuming the coroner was right, that would probably be from during transportation. Prior to being stuffed in the fridge, the victim was stuffed in a car's trunk. It made sense. Not perfect sense, but sense nonetheless. Why kill a person and bring him back home? So he'd be found, and serve as a message?

"Now, since the body was stashed in a refrigerator, it was preserved from any decomposition so far. That might be a good thing in some cases, but here it means that I can't give you an accurate time of death or how long it's been sitting there."

"Anything at all?"

"It's still fresh; a household refrigerator isn't on par with our freezers. It could have only happened in the last few days at most."

James' brain was crunching the data. The timeline was unclear and left some room to wiggle. For some reason it seemed like it could be the key to this somehow. Could they have it figured backwards? Could Yagi have in fact been killed first, and the highway pair was the retaliation strike? Maybe... No, wait; there was both his car and gun. The gun couldn't be linked until the lab techs tested it but the victim's car was what led them here in the first place. It was no use thinking without seeing the final results.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

"It's gonna cost a little more this time. I'm still working on them. I'll see you later, Leon."

The next day brought some answers in the latest batch of evidence reports. Apart from the refrigerator, no blood was found anywhere else in the house- no surprise there. Ballistics testing matched bullets fired at the highway murder scene to the gun recovered in Takeshi's bedroom. His own checking confirmed Takeshi was the owner of the firearm. A canvassing of the neighbors by the uniforms yielded little. Nobody heard any kind of disturbance. The last observed activity was the night of the highway homicides: a group of people was seen at the house, but no details. Yagi's killers perhaps, or his partners?

No... They were Yagi's partners; his gun was used in the other murders. That set the timeline on events; Yagi was one of the highway killers. It seemed like the Nakayama clan at least killed the right guy. But was the status quo restored? Justice was served but the score wasn't even at 2 dead Nakayama soldiers and 1 dead Toshihiro. Did the Nakayama know that there were 3 other killers? And regardless, could all be forgiven?

 _I guess we'll find out soon enough..._

* * *

DVD Commentary: In full disclosure, any forensic evidence discussion details in this story may be totally incorrect. Also: a Police Quest reference (probably the only non-SEGA game one; I made an exception for obvious reasons.)


	4. Shattered Jade

Iizuka had another meeting at the Kabukicho Grill, this one of a smaller scale. His own office stood in for the banquet room. Now he held company with just Nakahara. "Chairman," Nakahara said as he performed the customary greeting, though Iizuka remained standing facing the other way, looking out the window at the city skyline.

The crime lord went straight to business. "Our source tells me that one of the Toshihiro was found dead by the police today. It was obviously a homicide. He was their suspect in the murders of our men. It would seem that somebody in our family did it, despite my orders."

Nakahara obviously knew what was going to come up sooner or later. "You think that it was Kazuma's doing?"

"I don't know," Iizuka admitted. He had his suspicions, but did not like to wave them around without actual cause. After all, he gave the Toshihiro the benefit of the doubt; his own men deserved just as much. "But he would be my most likely guess. If not him, then one of his men, though I'm sure he had a say in it anyway." He turned from the window to face Nakahara. "You and Kazuma go back before joining our family. You know him better than anybody else. Do you think it could have been him?"

Nakahara took a long moment to answer. "I can't say. I won't deny that Kazuma is... a bit violent. But I firmly believe that he is utterly loyal to you." Nakahara's face betrayed nothing- if lying to avoid giving up a friend he would have never be able to tell. At least one part of the response rang true.

"I've felt the same way about his loyalty. Unfortunately the more pressing question remains unanswered. Our families stand on the brink of war. This could be the ignition."

Nakahara looked at him strangely. "Do you really still believe that all-out war can be avoided at this point?"

"There's a _chance_ , yes. If the deaths are all as we fear, we may be able to agree to put them behind us. As I said before, we must avoid going to war any way we can. It would jeopardize the entire family, whether we win or lose."

His subordinate nodded. "I understand. Have you spoken with the Toshihiro yet?"

"Not yet. Hopefully they're still willing to listen."

* * *

On the other side of Little Tokyo, the Toshihiro hive buzzed with activity. It was a considerably more modest business than the Kabukicho Grill: a tailor shop. Considering their reputation, their choice of a legitimate front could hardly have been any more incongruous. Ryuji, a lieutenant in the Toshihiro-gumi, loaded his weapon. He was accompanied by seven men, all ready to roll.

"Hey, anybody know what happened to Yagi?" the newest arrival, one of the younger members, asked. Ryuji didn't actually know his name, nor did he care to. His type was a dime a dozen: young, dumb punks that thought they were a lot harder than they really were. Not part of _his_ crew, of course- he was just a trusted senior member to oversee the business at hand. "There were police everywhere."

Nonetheless he deigned to answer the question. "Haven't you heard? Yagi got killed."

"Holy fuck. The police kill him?"

"No. They just found him dead at his place."

"Fuck. Who did then?"

Ryuji practically rolled his eyes at the question. _How long have you been in this family, 20 minutes? Take a wild guess you dumb little shit._ Rather than voice his thoughts he used a more neutral response. "20 to 1 says the Nakayama clan. Two of their own got killed and they're looking to return the favor. They certainly didn't waste any time."

"Oh fuck. Did he really do it?"

Now THAT was actually a fair question. Ryuji shrugged. The killing of a rival crime family member was a serious offense unsanctioned, and he had neither heard of any such orders being given nor any reason why the deceased would be marked for death. But with criminals, a little interpersonal beef could override the rules and screw everything up. "Who knows? Maybe, maybe not. It sure looks like the Nakayama think so."

At least the juvie was smart enough to know what that all meant. "Fuck man, are we going to war?"

"20 to 1 says yes."

* * *

Elsewhere in the city a warehouse bustled with subdued activity. Guns were being packed in foam-filled containers and loaded into a van by another group of criminals in Virtua City. This particular group was entirely American. The man packing the last box conversed to his partners, who were milling around in front of a TV doling out the nightly news. The current topic: another homicide in the city. "Hey, are these for the same guys that got wasted on the highway?" he asked.

"Say what?" one of the others answered. "Who got wasted on the highway?"

"What? _You're_ the one watching the news. You didn't hear about those two Japs that got murdered the other day? The word on the streets is that they were connected, like La Cosa Nostra. Except, you know, all Japanese and shit."

The third man joined in. "I don't know which family they were from. They might be; there's only two groups operating here you know. Maybe _that's_ why they're buying all these guns."

The clueless man commented. "A gang war... I like the sound of that. It sounds like good business!"

"Hear, hear!" the instigating man concurred.

"Hey, who's the other group?" the clueless man asked. "Maybe we can sell them some guns too."

"Nah," the informed man replied. "Don't get your hopes up. Those Naka boys are a big-time international crime organization. They don't need us to get guns."

"I bet we could get them better guns than anybody else," the clueless man boasted.

A new man entered the room, inspiring an end to the discussion. He sported sunglasses despite the fact that the sun already went down for the night. "Are we ready?"

"Yes sir," the instigating man replied, stuffing the last couple weapons into the case double-time and slamming it shut. "Hand!" The informed man obliged, grabbing one end of the case. Together they carried it towards the waiting van.

The news turned from local to abroad. Some more shit went down in the Middle East: an insurgent attack left three US casualties. Standing within reach of the TV, Fang simply punched its power button. _"Old news."_

* * *

Somewhere else in the residential sector... Inside a nondescript house, yet another group made up of youthful Japanese sat around a table, guns lying next to half-eaten bowls of ramen. If Mr. Barrows was present, he could identify three of them as participants of the highway double-homicide. Those currently present could identify the Molotov man as Shinji. At the moment Shinji had just answered his cell phone. "Yeah." He simply listened for a few seconds before finally speaking again. "Got it." Then he hung up.

"That Koji?" one of the others asked. The witness would have been able to identify him as one of the highway killers as well. Others would identify him as Daigo.

"Yeah. He's almost here. It's going down. Remember who the targets are here: the objective is to take out as many of _them_ as we can. There are no points awarded for killing any _gaijin_."

A couple of them expressed (probable) exaggerated disappointment. Daigo asked, "Suppose we pop 'em anyway?"

"Whatever. It's all fair game." Everyone started scooping up their pieces. The favored choice: TEC-9. The purring of a car drifted in from the driveway. The group went out the back. Aside from the newly-arrived sports car, several motorcycles were lined up down the driveway, as well as a minivan that looked decidedly out of place keeping company with the flashier (and much faster) vehicles. They filed out: Shinji to the waiting car, three to the motorcycles, and one to the modest minivan.

Shinji slid into the passenger seat. His brother sat in the driver's seat across from him. Koji looked over. _"Let's do it."_

* * *

Rendezvous- the parking structure above the 16th Avenue subway station. East meets West- a Japanese crime syndicate and an American international smuggling cartel. Parity- eight men per group.

Everything was set up. The coast was clear. His crew had shown up first and swept the garage for any people who should not have been present. Burke was staked out in the stairwell that was enclosed in glass. He'd keep a lookout for anybody that came from the outside or the subway station; cop, civilian, or otherwise. He gave his all-clear: "We're good to go."

Showtime. The albino leader of the American group stepped out the rear doors of the van. To those in the business he was known as Fang. To his own men he was either "Boss" or "Sir."

* * *

A few blocks away, various vehicles taking different routes all suddenly converged and rolled as one. In the lead car, Shinji racked his submachine gun and casually hung his entire arm out the window. The parking structure loomed ahead. As expected there was a sentry in the stairwell standing guard. As they got closer, he raised his weapon upwards and squeezed the trigger...

* * *

The deal was going perfectly routine up until Burke issued a warning: "We got bogies incoming." Before Fang could ask for any further clarification, a burst of automatic fire came from outside that blew out the stairwell windows. Burke hit the deck. Everyone else jumped.

Everything happened fast. Fang grabbed Ryuji, banged his head into the side of the van, held the stunned leader up as a shield, and pulled a knife to the man's throat. Everyone else scrambled for their own weapons and the nearest cover. Before anything else could happen Fang yelled, "HOLD YOUR FIRE!" It seemed to work; the Toshihiro hesitated with one of their senior officers in the crossfire.

With his neck on the line, Ryuji understandably echoed the order to his charges. Then he asked the million dollar question: "What the fuck is this, man?" He seemed genuinely as confused as Fang did at the moment, but maybe it was just the hit on the head.

"That's what _I_ want to know. Did you invite anybody else to our little meeting here?"

"The fuck are you talking about?"

There was no time to sort everything out before the sound of engines came roaring up the spiraling ramp to their level. Although all the noise indicated several vehicles, only a minivan came into view. The vehicle screeched to a halt sideways, blocking off the ramp. The driver emerged and took cover behind the vehicle. Behind him were more charging up the ramp, taking up positions behind the concrete walls and van.

Fang pivoted around to face the newcomers. They appeared to be more yakuza types and therefore affiliated with their buyers. The newcomers let their weapons do the talking, showing little (if any) concern for the well-being of the hostage. Hardly surprisingly a shot ended up hitting Ryuji. Between the human shield and a Kevlar vest, the bullet stopped before doing any harm to Fang. Still, both men went down. Ryuji's thrashing slit his own throat on the knife's blade.

Everything went to hell after that. All other weapons opened up. Car alarms went off en masse. Fang crawled out from under Ryuji's dead weight and rolled to cover behind the van where his lieutenant Emerson and two other men had also taken up position behind. Most of the remainders were behind an SUV. Both vehicles had been strategically parked at angles in order to provide maximum cover just in case reinforcements had shown up like so. Emerson called out, "Sir!" It was almost impossible to hear over the cacophony of noise.

Fang drew his own weapon, but peeked out to scope the situation before firing. He noticed that the Toshihiro were firing at the newcomers, who evidently were hostile guests not acting in collusion with them. Unfortunately the Toshihiro were also shooting at THEM, and his men had already reciprocated. It was a little too late to clear up hostile intentions at this point. The parties were now all involved in a three-way shootout.

* * *

All was quiet out on Route 101, just another night shift on traffic duty. Hardy and Anderson stood to the side of the highway, between the concrete barrier and railing. Nick was at the railing, urinating off the highway. Michael held the radar gun and devoted half of his attention to the relatively low volume of cars passing by. "Dead."

"Cats," Anderson responded.

"Cats is consistent, I'll admit. On a scale of one to ten, every song ranks at least an 8… but it doesn't have that many 10's. As Good As Dead might as well be called their greatest hits album. You've got Bound For The Floor, Eddie Vedder, Fritz's Corner, and High-Fivin' Motherfucker. Cats just doesn't have the songs to compete with those."

"It's got All The Kids Are Right."

"One song versus three. Plus it's got the soul of grunge. Hey are you done yet?"

"Yeah… but I still disagree on the albums."

Nick zipped up and turned. Mike passed the radar off and took the vacated spot at the railing. He unzipped and aimed for the sign of the truck rental depot below. After a moment of relief, he continued the discussion. "Okay, let's talk _second_ best album then. What's yours?"

"I suppose I'll give Dead that much. You?"

"PJ Soles."

A flat "What?" was the response. "Hell no, you did NOT just say that."

"Yes I did, because it's an awesome album."

"Not more awesome than Cats."

Finished, he zipped up. "Certainly more diverse though." With a pause in the traffic, the officers climbed over the barrier and walked to the median where their car was parked. They didn't get back inside, choosing instead to continue standing outside. "It seems like every ten years the H makes one of their best albums. '96 had Dead, '04 had PJ Soles, '15 had Killer-"

"Now _that_ one I can't argue with… except you seem to be saying Cats are at best fourth place."

"That sounds about right."

"THAT sounds like you don't know shit."

"It's got tough competition."

"At least that much is true…" Nick conceded.

Despite their heated conversation both men were still listening to the constant chatter of the police radio- a necessary ability to learn on the job for sanity preservation. One call finally proved relevant to them. "Attention all units in the vicinity... Shooting in progress at the parking structure above the subway station at 16th Avenue..." The dispatcher spoke with several years of practiced jadedness. "All units in the..."

The dispatcher ran on repeat. 16th Avenue- not a long haul from their position on the highway, very much in the vicinity. "Well hot damn," Michael said as they climbed into the vehicle.

"Man," Nick said, "I think you just might be a trouble magnet."

* * *

Back in the firefight, Fang had already given his order: escape. That was the drill in case of trouble. The weapons were expendable; the priority was getting the hell out of there before the cops showed up. To that end, they'd positioned themselves right by the stairs for a quick exit on foot if not possible by car. Unfortunately there was a snag. "We've got a shooter blocking the stairs below us," Burke reported.

Fang barked orders into his Bluetooth piece for two men who were waiting a couple blocks away. "Meet us at the stairs on the outside! Be advised, we got at least one hostile on the ground floor."

One word indicated acknowledgment. "Comin'!"

They continued the firefight for a little while. None of his men had been hit, at least not that he could see. The Toshihiro hadn't given any thought to strategic positioning and thus were in an unenviable position, caught in a crossfire with minimal cover. Beside Ryuji they'd lost another of their own. Now the rest were spending most of the time staying down to avoid the firepower being poured upon them. It was clear that his men were the dominant force in this fight.

"Cover me! I'm going for the stairs!" Emerson and another close man nodded. As they opened fire he dashed the short distance into the stairwell where Burke waited on the landing between flights. Burke pointed a pair of fingers through the floor in the direction of the lower car park, indicating the locations of the waiting gunmen. Going down the stairs was out of the question, but... "Anybody outside?"

"Can't see, but don't think so."

"Your rides are here!" As it turned out, the backup drivers answered the question; if there were any hostiles outside, they would have seen them. Fang crept forward and leaned out for a peek. The drivers pulled up onto the grass and sidewalks, then got out and began firing over the low walls at the hostiles inside the garage. Good.

Emerson had appeared next to him at some point, awaiting his orders. How to get down? The stairs were still a dubious prospect. The windows had been all blown out, leaving nothing standing between inside and out except for a half-story drop onto the grass. It was a much safer choice than running down the stairs and hopefully not getting shot. "We're going out the window. Burke, you're first."

"Yes sir." Burke's tone and expression indicated he wasn't too thrilled to be the guinea pig. He jumped over the railing and out the window... A moment later his whoop of triumph could be heard.

"My turn. You're in charge here now," Fang said to Emerson. Then he replicated Burke's maneuver, landing on his feet and then rolling on grass. Burke had already joined the other men in firing back inside the garage. Fang did the same. So did each of the remaining men as they jumped down. Pretty soon the shooters were grossly outgunned and simply remained cowering behind the pillars they'd chosen for cover.

"Everybody's down!" Emerson announced. "Let's get the hell out of here!" Fang couldn't object to the idea. They all piled into the two SUV's, which were a slightly tight fit for 10 adults. As they sped away, everyone was silent with relief. Upon noticing one of his men had managed to grab the briefcase of money, his mood improved. They'd ditched the guns but still got the payment, with no casualties on their side. Ugly, but from a business perspective, this wasn't such a bad day after all.

* * *

Speeding down the lightly occupied streets, Hardy and his partner were making great time. Three blocks away from the address they cranked a hard turn at an intersection... and found themselves heading straight at an SUV coming the other way at about the same speed. "Shit!" both of the car's occupants exclaimed in unison. Simply braking alone wouldn't cut it, so he swerved to the right to avoid a head-on collision. Thankfully the other driver correctly swerved to their right as well. One disaster averted, but a SECOND SUV threatened to do the same. Already committed to swerving back into the middle of the road, Michael could only fully hit the brakes and hope for the best. Both vehicles skidded towards each other...

Friction between the tires and road ultimately brought them both to a stop before a collision between vehicles did. Mere feet from catastrophe, the officers sighed in relief. The person in the front passenger seat of the SUV leaned out of his window. Michael at first thought it was to yell some choice angry words, however he reconsidered the man's intention upon seeing he wielded a submachine gun. "Fuck!" They both ducked down as the shooting started. The windshield protected them from harm, for now at least. He shoved the gear in reverse and hit the gas. "God damn it!" He frantically steered to keep from going off the street and into a storefront- it was a lot harder to control a car going backwards at speed.

The SUV took off too. Going forward, even the much slower vehicle threatened to overtake the Mustang careening in reverse. Left hand on the wheel, he drew his weapon with his right. His hands switched duties. Right hand on the wheel now, he stuck his left out the window and fired back. At an angle with a non-dominant hand, it wasn't surprising the first shot didn't go where intended; he wasn't sure if it even hit the vehicle. He shifted his aim and fired three more shots. One put a hole in the SUV's windshield in the passenger's side. The shooter jerked and retreated back inside. It appeared the shot was at least a wounding hit. "Mike! Behind us!"

A quick glance in the mirror showed they were coming up on the intersection. The other SUV had stopped somewhere past it and was blocking most of the street, waiting for them. "Hang the fuck on!" As soon as they passed the point of no return, he cranked the wheel all the way around. The car went spinning down the side street. Even as the whole world turned he was unloading the remainder of his magazine at the side of the passing vehicle...

Fang ducked as a salvo of bullets tore through the SUV's interior. Blood and brain matter blew out the back of Burke's head and sprayed him. The dead weight fell on him. "Get us the hell out of here!" The driver obliged, not even slowing while swerving hard around anything in their way. He pushed Burke's body off and sat back up, glancing around. Emerson was apparently unharmed but whoever was sitting in the front passenger seat looked just as dead as Burke. Two of his men dead- not such a good day after all.

The squad car abruptly stopped spinning as it banged the curb. Bullets continued to plink into the car. The vehicle sagged as at least one tire was blown out. "Holy shit, you alright?" Hardy asked as he shot fully back upright once the shooting paused.

His partner replied, "Yeah, I'm fine."

The criminals had understandably carried on and not stopped. Their car was in no condition to give chase. He became aware of gunfire that was coming from the direction the suspects had fled from. "Hey, you hear that?" Without waiting he announced the correct answer. "There's still a shootout going on over there."

"Oh great, there's MORE assholes with guns around here to shoot at us."

Michael put it back in drive and started rolling. He tossed his gun in Nick's lap. "Reload that for me and call it in."

Nick grabbed the mic. "Dispatch, Adam-Mary-2 is at the scene. Be advised, two suspect vehicles have already fled the scene... Dark SUV's, no details, but armed and extremely dangerous... Last seen heading east on Busey Avenue. We need backup at the address! Over!" Once finished with that, he took a magazine out of the glove box and reloaded his partner's weapon.

They crept up to the corner just short of the address. The parking garage was still rocking with gunfire and car alarms. The unholy racket seemed to be entirely coming from an upper level. There was no visible activity on the ground floor. Hardy took his weapon back from his partner. "Well, you ready to do this?"

"Seriously? You wanna go in THERE? Now?"

"Well, it's our job to go in there and restore order." Even as he spoke, he was fitting his uniform's cap on.

"Shit. I wish I had _your_ unwavering sense of duty. Do we at least have a plan here?"

He was silent for a moment before suggesting, "We have a shotgun in the trunk."

 _"Oh, that's even better,"_ Anderson said dubiously.

* * *

Shinji was disappointed with how the attack was going. Only two or three targets were killed. Akira had taken a round in the shoulder and was out of the fight. The American gun dealers had proven to be unexpectedly skilled to say the least. Fortunately their escape was of no concern to them; it just meant that the heat was off them now.

But not for long. Rikiya came running up the ramp yelling. "Cops are here! We gotta go!" They'd gotten here fast.

Nobody waited for his orders. They were already scrambling for their rides. Shinji retrieved a Molotov cocktail from the van, lit the wick, and dropped it inside the vehicle. It went up right away- the interior was doused with gasoline. Now the van was a roadblock. He ran back for the car where his brother already waited. Everyone else went for the bikes, some riding passenger.

* * *

The Toshihiro, for their part, acted quickly if not exactly coordinated. They grabbed the last of the weapons not already loaded into the cars. By some miracle all of their cars' tires had emerged unscathed. One quick-thinking yakuza drove his car backwards into the burning van, ramming it out of the way enough to clear a path.

* * *

The two agents of the VCPD stood at the open trunk of their vehicle. Sergeant Hardy cradled the standard-issue Mossberg. He racked the pump and loaded a live shell. "Let's do it."

The sound of revving motors got their attention. They ran back up to the corner and peeked at the garage. There was activity on the first floor now: at least six people. They soon came tearing out of the structure on several bikes and a sports car, escaping in the opposite direction. "Well, I guess the bad guys have left," Anderson stated. Indeed, the gunfire had all stopped. That hopefully meant the situation was over. But that also could easily mean that they arrived too late to save anybody.

There was another roar of engines, this time from the upstairs. "Maybe not," Michael said. "Let's go!" He dashed across the street and pressed up against the wall, followed by his partner a moment later. Now nobody inside could shoot at them without leaning out of the building. They crept along the low outer wall and stopped at the entrance to survey the situation. A crash came from above. The officers entered the garage as a trio of tricked-out cars similar to the one that just left came down the ramp. Standing between them and the exit, both men leveled their weapons on the lead vehicle. Michael put out a hand and yelled out its intended meaning: "STOP!"

In response, the cars lurched forward in acceleration. He lowered his aim, sighting in on the right front tire, and fired. The tire shredded. The car veered to the right- hardly a catastrophic loss of control. However, the driver overcompensated, swerving into one of the support pillars. The second car plowed into the rear of the suddenly-stopped lead vehicle. The third car did its best to avoid crashing but only succeeded in skidding sideways into the wreckage. "God damn boy, nice shot!" Anderson exclaimed.

"Uh... yeah..." was all he could say in answer, too busy gawking at the aborted escape that his shot had utterly stopped dead in its tracks. The occupants of the cars seemed to be in only marginally better shape than their rides. Seizing the moment, he rushed forward with weapon raised and barked commands at the dazed men. "DON'T MOVE! GET YOUR HANDS UP!" The racking of the shotgun punctuated his words. His partner was soon right beside him. They repeated their commands.

The suspects did not move. However, only two put up their hands. Everyone else fidgeted and darted eyes. The officers swept their weapons back and forth to cover the suspects. Michael began to second-guess his plan of attack. It had seemed like a perfectly sound tactic: confront the bad guys while they were too dazed and disoriented to do anything. The mathematics however were not in their favor: two cops and six crooks. This was starting to feel like a really bad idea.

A sudden movement drew his attention along with his weapon like a magnet. Another man had raised an arm into view, with a gun in hand. Hardy fired. The man caught most of the spread but the person seated next to him caught some buckshot too. Everybody else ducked, for a moment at least. One came back up with a gun at the ready. He aimed at the new threat but Nick beat him to the punch and shot first. Another perp in the closest car stuck a gun out over the window and fired blind in HIS direction.

A bullet struck him off to the side of the stomach. The force of the impact spun him around, sending his cap flying off. Just as he recovered, Nick practically shoved him to the ground behind the outer wall of the garage. "Thanks, partner." _Not that I really needed that..._

"You okay?"

"Vest stopped it." The officers got back to their feet and fired an answering salvo: one shotgun blast and at least five handgun rounds. The criminals climbed out of the wrecked vehicles, some crawling out windows instead of doors. One had an SMG, the rest had handguns.

Anderson was yelling into his mic right now. "At least four armed suspects on the first floor of the parking garage! Need help, over!" The officers popped out, fired, and ducked back into cover. The low wall made Hardy hunch over in order to remain hidden. Anderson at least had a complete pillar at his end to stand behind. He wanted to find himself a better position.

"Keep it up here. I'll go around and flank." Drawing his Guardian, he started crawling to ensure he kept below the wall. When he reached the corner he snuck a peek: everybody seemed to be in the same places. He continued crawling until he was sure that he had passed the shooters. Another peek confirmed it. He vaulted the wall and crept among the cars behind the gunmen.

The criminals were in pairs, one on each side of the garage. They were all focused on Anderson; apparently nobody had noticed his absence. He advanced undetected behind one group, planning to take out the guy with the SMG first once he got into comfortable range. He was JUST about where he wanted to be when the intended #2 swung back into cover… facing his direction. He shot him first instead. The SMG man whirled around in surprise. Michael racked his weapon and swung it over to him… The man chose to run, diving over the hood to the opposite side of the car, just as he pulled the trigger. The blast missed and punched a hole in the windshield. Time to reload.

A bullet cracked over his head- somebody in the other group knew he was here too. He dropped into a sitting position behind his own car and started reloading the shotgun. The SMG man was firing too now. The car windows shattered and rained glass onto him. He was just about to load the last shell when a movement to his right caught his attention. FLANKED! He dropped the shell, pumped the last loaded round into the chamber, and swung the shotgun in the general direction of his flanker. The man dove backwards just before he fired. Then he hauled ass.

He crouch-ran between the cars the next row over while they got shot up. He felt a bullet part his hair and hit the deck. Head below the chassis, he could see the feet of the shooter directly across from him. An idea formed. He got back up and navigated back around the ends of the cars, ending up between one of them and a sizable pillar. It was good cover. He swung out to. The SMG man was scanning for him, and found him. He fired first, sending SMG Man ducking back down. Crouching, he then aimed at a point on the ground a couple feet in front of the suspect's position and fired again. The pellets skipped off the pavement at a low angle and went underneath the car. SMG Man yelped and fell over, feet flailing as if on fire.

Another one down, but not necessarily out just yet. The angle of the cars gave him cover from the shooters on the other side of the garage, so he ran straight for the downed man's position, stopping short at the last car. That was smart, because SMG Man was still full of fight and firing to discourage coming any closer. The firing continued for a while despite the lack of an exposed target. As soon as the barrage subsided, he swung back out. The man was looking at his empty weapon as if in complete disbelief that it couldn't just keep firing indefinitely. Then he looked at HIM. His final word for posterity: "Fuck!"

Flashes of red and blue announced the arrival of at least one additional unit. The odds had turned around in the favor of the forces of law and order. The two remaining shooters had turned their attention to the new arrivals.

He scoped the situation and decided that the next closest pillar would make a good position. He certainly didn't want to let the enemy pull the same under-the-car trick on him. He'd just have to cross a couple empty spaces to reach the pillar. He shifted the Mossberg to his left hand, drew his Guardian with the right, then charged forward, firing to cover his advance. A blast from the shotgun nearly blew the weapon out of his grip. Reaching the pillar, he holstered the handgun and went back to the shotgun.

Bullets hit the pillar and chipped off pieces of concrete. When the firing ceased he took in the situation: at least two officers, Anderson likely one of them, were in their original position, and another was moving along the wall opposite his location. The crooks were now almost completely surrounded.

At least one of them realized their predicament and yelled, "Let's get out of here!" They made a break between the cars on the other side of the garage to the opposite side of the garage. They fired in his direction, as he was the officer who was most in their way. He spun around to the other side of the pillar and fired his last shells. Anderson and the other officers were shooting as well.

One suspect dropped out of sight. The other spun around and fell onto a car's hood. The cops ceased fire. Hardy dropped the empty shotgun and pulled his sidearm again. Running Man jumped back up, raised his weapon, and yelled defiantly- pure _BANZAI!_ _The cops resumed fire,_ hitting him multiple more times in the crossfire, only ceasing again when he went back down.

There was no sound, no movement. Was the other guy hit too? By now the other officers had entered the garage. They signaled to each other: _you stand at the end, we'll walk down the sides._ Doing so, they had all the angles covered, yet the last guy was nowhere to be seen. Anderson asked, "Where is he?" It was a damn good question.

The answer should have been obvious. _He's under the cars._ Michael started to get on his hands and knees to look below the chassis of the car next to him when shots whizzed right below him. 'SHIT!" He jumped back upright, dancing like a Bugs Bunny and Yosemite Sam routine- it probably would have been hilarious if not for the risk of bodily harm.

Anderson jumped onto the nearest parked car. He followed suit, crashing through the remains of a rear window and tumbling into the backseat. He opened one of the doors and poked his head and gun arm out below the car. Everything was upside down but he could see the last guy hiding underneath another car several rows over, firing at the running legs of the other officers. He shot the distracted gunman, who rolled over onto his back.

* * *

DVD Commentary: Well, this took a surprisingly long time. I actually had the story done up until this point and posted elsewhere, but I wasn't satisfied with the shootout. Specifically, I had to rewrite it when I realized that Rage only did the under-the-car trick on one guy and then apparently never thought to use it again against the others. It doesn't end as climatically as my first draft though.

I originally had the VCPD with Benelli M4's as their shotgun of choice, which appeared last chapter (and also in the third game.) However, I found that the weapon is exclusively (semi) automatic with no pumping. BOO! Rule of cool must be followed. Fortunately, despite the obvious advantages of automatic shotguns law enforcement still overall prefer pump-actions. Part of it is simply because they're cheaper but...

FREE LESSON: automatic shotguns eliminate pumping because they utilize the recoil from a shot to do the work instead... or at least that's the theory. Not all loads are made equal though. Less-than-lethal ammo doesn't have as much kick and therefore doesn't produce as much recoil, running the risk of not generating enough energy to pump the next round in and leaving an officer with his dick in his hands and a pissed-off suspect. Not a pretty situation. Pumps don't have that worry. THE MORE YOU KNOW...

Of course, it wouldn't be unusual for a SWAT team to carry an automatic one since they're kind of the 'undiplomatic squad'.

The young Toshihiro with the tendency to say fuck once a sentence last chapter is the same guy here. I think he'll be listed in the credits as Fuckuza.


	5. The Drawing Of The Pair

Just when James had molded his flex hours into a shift he enjoyed, a call threw it out of order: there's several dead guys at a parking garage with your case written all over it- it's your scene now. Once there, he tried to look for an officer who seemed to be in charge. The sheer number of cops present made that impossible so he simply walked up to the nearest one on perimeter duty and identified himself. "The first on scene?"

"They'd be the ones with the paramedics last I saw," the officer answered, looking over his shoulder at a nearby ambulance. James' expression must shown concern because he quickly added, "But don't worry, they both looked completely fine."

"This is a _police_ shooting?"

"Some of it was at least. We were all responding to a shooting in progress. Those guys caught the tail end of the party. It was all over by the time I got here though."

"All right, thanks."

Approaching the ambulance, James could immediately recognize the officers being checked up. The one sitting on the ambulance's rear bumper was none other than Sergeant Hardy. He appeared to be unharmed except for a few butterfly bandages for some superficial cuts. _You gotta be kidding..._ The one leaning against the side smoking a cigarette was his partner; he only knew him as Nick.

The famous cop saw him first. "Ah, so you're interested in these guys too?"

"That's right. We seem to be crossing paths a lot lately." The question seemed obvious but he couldn't help but ask. "You're the first on the scene?"

"Yeah. I might actually end up closing this whole case before you at this rate."

"What exactly happened here?"

The Sergeant sighed. "A _lot_. The short version is that a bunch of guys were shooting at each other until we arrived, then they shot at us instead. If you want the long version, just wait for my report. "

"No survivors on their end?"

"A few fled the scene when we arrived, but everyone who didn't is dead."

"Alright, I'll leave you alone for now."

Inside the garage, the first thing he noticed were body bags lined up by the entrance. Once again Leon was on the job. "Geez, Leon, how many do we have this time?"

"Eight. I was excited the first time I saw one, but this is getting out of hand. I'm almost out of freezer space already. Anyway, they've all been shot, so my first impression is that this was one big shootout. If you want any more specific details than that..."

James cut in. "Just wait for your report."

"Yeah. The carnage is on this floor and the third."

"Thanks."

Looking over the garage interior, he immediately came to a conclusion: just wait for everybody's report. As he was told, the ballistics team had already come and gone. He didn't envy their job of trying to figure out exactly what had happened. Bullet holes were EVERYWHERE. Entire rows of parked cars were shot to pieces; there were going to be a lot of unhappy owners. Several pools of blood ran across the pavement to drainage grates. Shell casings littered the area: 9mm, .45, and 12-gauge at least. The centerpiece of the scene, where all the destruction and carnage seemed to radiate outward from, was a trio of wrecked sports cars. He felt kind of bad- they were nice cars. All in all, there seemed to be nothing useful to glean from the scene.

Upstairs on the third floor was much the same. The only things of interest were a van and SUV parked illegally, clearly used by at least one party in the shooting. Neither contained anything interesting. All in all, the only thing to take away from both floors was the obvious: there was a big shootout. The only thing left were the wrecked getaway cars on the first floor. The interiors had nothing unusual in them. Next he started popping trunks. Inside trunk #1: nothing. Inside trunk #2: it would remain a mystery- it was jammed shut due to the damage. Inside trunk #3: a pair of containers. He opened one to find it packed full of submachine guns. He didn't know what they were intended for but one word came to mind: WAR.

Somewhere behind him, somebody yelled, "Hey, which one of you motherfuckers stepped on my hat?"

* * *

A duel to the death. Two sword-wielding opponents. Both heavily injured and barely standing, although neither showing it. The pair walked in a circle, one occasionally stepping forward as if to make an attack, only to not follow up. Neither fighter fell for a feint, so this little dance continued. But time was running out and was not on the side of the more injured - he'd have to make a move.

Finally, the desperate fighter launched forward with a jumping attack. The other was not caught off-guard by the sudden move and was able to dodge the strike. Committed to the attack, the warrior could do nothing as his opponent struck at his exposed side. The hit knocked him off his feet and into a pirouette. Despite his condition the fighter immediately started to get back on his feet. However, his opponent threw honor to the wind, drawing a firearm and shooting his helpless opponent as he tried to stand back up. The fight was over.

A chorus of "Boo!" rose among the spectators on the couch. Akira threw down his controller. "Oh, come on out with that fuckin' cheap-ass bullshit!" Goro, winner of the match, simply laughed. "The rules are no fucking laser spamming!"

"That was just ONE single shot… Spamming requires multiple shots," Goro pointed out.

"That is technically true." Koji chimed in from the side.

Akira was unimpressed by the logic. "It was still a fucking cheap shot."

Shinji entered the room and the argument ceased. He had been on the phone to their employer. Their job hadn't gone anywhere near as well as they had hoped- the employer might have been pissed. Everyone was in suspense of what he was about to say. "So," Koji asked, "what'd the boss man say?"

"It's all good. The cops came through after we left and killed everybody else. All the Toshies are dead. The final tally was eight. "

Everyone was relieved, but nobody celebrated. Koji asked, "Yeah, but we still get paid though, right?"

* * *

Michael stuck his head into Captain Frank Karanza's office and rapped on the doorway. The captain looked up from the papers on his desk and beckoned him inside. "Mike... How are you holding up? If you want to take some time off, it's not a problem."

"No, I'm fine, sir."

"Yeah, I figured you'd say that. Now, you know that you won't be back on patrol after a shooting. If you want, I have a special assignment for you."

Hardy crossed himself. "Let's hear it."

"All right. I would assume that your natural curiosity as a cop has led you to find out who exactly you shot it out with the other day."

A pause- cut him off. "Toshihiro boys. One of the two yakuza outfits operating in the city, and the smaller. They're notorious for being violent. The two families have been getting rowdy lately."

"Rowdy is a bunch of guys pounding on each other with fists, bats, or chains, _maybe_ a guy getting shanked. We've got a double-digit body count, firebombings on the freeway, and shootouts in public places. And now they've shown a distinct lack of respect for authority. We've already had someone on the investigation, but the case is too dangerous for one man to work. Since you appear to be inexorably drawn to the ongoing investigation, you might as well be working on it. You'll be partnered up with the detective already working the case."

The assignment had just gotten considerably less appealing. Hardy leaned over the captain's desk. "So this is a backup gig? You want me to babysit the rookie?" He kept his voice down so as not to let it travel outside the office; opinions aside, it wasn't conducive to piss off coworkers without a real good reason.

"No. _Detective_ Cools has already proven himself as a fine police officer before his transfer to our precinct. His case history is short but impressive. In fact, I have a hunch you two are going to get along just fine. Now do you want the job or not?"

It was either special assignment or desk jockey duty. "Yeah, I'll take it."

Karanza stood and walked out the door before Hardy could ask for more about that 'hunch' the captain mention. He called out, "James!" On cue, a detective stood up from the desk he was working at. "Detective, here is the partner that you were promised. I'm probably slightly biased, but I would call him one of our best men... Sergeant Hardy, Detective Cools. Detective Cools, Sergeant Hardy."

James extended a hand. "I know we've already met, but it's nice to formally meet you, Sergeant." Mike engaged in a nice firm handshake- they were partners now, so it would be well to avoid any drama... for as long as possible. _But seriously, Pretty Boy?_ They were about as antithetical as two men could get. His own jacket and jeans stood in contrast with his partner's immaculate full suit and tie. Was he a cop or an IRS agent?

He probably had at least a decade lead on his partner's age. James was maybe 25, tops. He looked even younger with his boyish good looks, which crossed slightly over into androgynous territory. If his hair wasn't cut so short, he could probably pass for female. As it was, a few drinks and somebody would be in for a surprise. Speaking from an impartial heterosexual viewpoint, Michael had to admit he was probably attractive to the opposite sex. But for a cop, he was about as intimidating as Dicaprio. Actually, scratch that, less so.

But truth be told, he didn't know a thing about his partner's performance on the job, the only thing that really mattered, so he didn't really have anything against the guy. This assignment might not totally suck. Frank said he was good. The Captain wasn't one to keep his opinions to himself. And he'd like to believe that Frank wouldn't jerk his chain. _But still... fucking Pretty Boy?_ You can't judge a book by its cover, but you can very well make some reasonable assumptions.

"Okay, so you're acquainted. Now get to work." With that, the Captain headed back to his office, leaving the two men to stand around awkwardly for a moment.

"Okay, James. What do we do now?" he finally asked.

The detective had an answer for that. "Bring you up to speed?" He sat down at his desk and rifled through his papers. "I've got the full reports for you to read, but as you're probably aware of most of the case, let's start with the most recent reports on the garage shooting."

"Okay. Reviewing all the reports, I think we've got a pretty good idea just what went down at that garage before you showed up. Ballistics report on the third floor shootout came back with the following... One: spent shell casing were amassed in 3 groups, ergo the shooters were too. Two: analysis of the shot trajectories from each group indicated they were firing at the other two, meaning that there were three different parties involved. You encountered a group fleeing the scene in SUV's, apparently American or at the very least not Japanese."

"Right."

"You saw another group flee the scene in flashier vehicles, then you engaged a group of Toshihiro before they could split as well."

Mike counted off. "The Toshihiro we know for sure... Odds are the Nakayama being the unidentified party... The third group, the Americans, is anybody's guess who they were. Or what they were all doing there."

"Some kind of meeting, probably a business transaction. Those Toshihiro had an arsenal, unloaded, stashed in their trunks. Clearly the weapons weren't intended to be used right there and then. In the absence of any other explanation, I'd say it was an arms deal."

"It fits. The Toshihiro aren't half as organized as the Naka clan. They don't have international contacts to get guns. So say the American crew are just some local gun dealers doing business with one group when the other crashes the party. The dealers figure "honor among crooks" and everybody starts shooting at each other."

"Exactly," James replied… and said nothing more.

"Well okay, that's all good that we know what happened, but where does that get us in the investigation?"

"THAT dead ends. But the partial description of that car you saw leaving the scene along with the bikes was distinct enough to get a possible suspect."

He was surprised. 'Partial' was a very kind word for his observation- 'almost non-existent' would have been more accurate. All he had gleamed was the car was bright blue- he couldn't even remember the bikes at all. If these guys weren't driving such flashy cars they'd have never been found. "Another yakuza?"

"Yep, and from the Nakayama clan too. The man is Yuji Kurosowa. He's a high-ranking member who has his own little branch."

"Where we at on him?"

"We got a warrant to pick him up, but right now though we're waiting on something."

"Like what?"

"Opportunity," Yoshida interjected, sitting at a desk across the room. "He's not at home. The word is that everybody's already gone to the mattresses. But we do have an idea where we might find him in a day or two."

"Where is that?"

Yoshida smiled. "You'll see."

"Oh, I can't wait."

But as it happened, he would have to wait. With the current developments covered and no hot leads to pursue, Michael went reading through the reports on the freeway murders and the homicide of the suspect. It brought him up to speed, but sparked no new ideas. This left them with nothing to do at the moment.

"Well, I guess we're just about done for today. I'm gonna head down to the range and fill out the rest of my shift. Care to join me?"

"Okay."

There was silence as they walked down the hall. That was good. Awkward, but good- his partner didn't try to get all chatty. He raised his estimations for this partnership a little bit higher. There was a reason for this little shooting session besides simply marking time.

A police officer is only as strong as his or her backup. James had strong backup. Of that there was no doubt. But did HE have good backup? So James solved a bunch of cases. Maybe he was even some sort of accomplished detective. But that didn't mean he could handle himself in a crisis situation. Michael didn't like the idea of going through a doorway with someone without knowing they had his back. He could find out of course; he was a detective himself. Review his partner's case file- easy, but there no time for that now. But there was another way, albeit slightly less conclusive, to at least make himself feel a little better... Or worse... But worse was better than uncertain...

* * *

His new partner kept his thoughts to himself, verbally at least; clearly there were misgivings about this pairing. James did likewise. Once at the range, they each donned a pair of earmuffs and tinted protective glasses which protected your eyes but also washed the world in a shade of Urine Yellow. Maybe the choice of color was to discourage people from walking off with them. They claimed a pair of adjacent empty booths. James clamped down a man-sized target from the waist up and sent it back about 50 yards. Nobody was looking, so he took out a roll of Smarties, dumped a handful, and downed them. Then he drew his Guardian, raised it in a double-fisted grip, and squeezed the trigger. The gun jumped in his hands- he let it settle back down before pulling the trigger again. He continued to fire in a steady rhythm until expending the clip. He set down the empty weapon and pressed the button to call back the target.

Meanwhile, Sergeant Hardy had emptied his clip at a faster rate and already had his target back. He sauntered over, seemingly quite pleased with his work. And deservedly so: his target had two tight groupings of holes in the middle of the chest and head. Then he glanced over at James' target all inconspicuous-like, which had just returned to the booth. The head of the target was untouched but the same could certainly not be said for the chest; the center-mass almost obliterated by a grouping of holes that was just slightly tighter than Hardy's. His partner's eyebrows rose. "Whoa. That's... pretty good," he said simply.

"Thank you, Sergeant," James said modestly. Hardy said, "Alright, one more." James replied, "Okay." As soon as his partner turned away, James let out the grin he had been holding in.

* * *

 _God damn, that kid can shoot... Well so can I... It's time to focus..._ Michael put up a fresh target and sent it back. Reloading his weapon, he brought it up and aimed... This time he paused longer after each shot to aim a bit more precisely before squeezing the trigger again. He now focused exclusively on the chest like his partner had done. Empty- he brought back the target. The end result was better, his grouping just beating his partner's. _Now THAT is pretty good..._

A voice cut through his thoughts: "Mikey." It belonged to Officer Costello. Cavers accompanied him. They had snuck in while he was busy focusing on his shooting. "You just here for fun or are you brushing up your skills?" They both wore shit-eating grins, obviously knowing exactly what this little session was really all about.

"No reason I can't do both at the same time." It was time to compare. James had used the same target as before, this time shooting up the previously untouched head. He almost had to grab his jaw to keep it from dropping. James had also apparently focused a little harder this time around because his grouping was also better than the first, once again edging him out.

Costello whistled. "Da-yum! Better watch out Mikey, it looks like you might have some new-" he paused as he glanced back at Hardy's target and analyzed the groupings. "-competition," he finished.

Just then, his target paper folded under its weight, wilting much like his manhood did at that moment. "Yeah, looks like it," he replied in the best indifferent voice he could muster.

"Oh shit, it's on now," Cavers commented.

"No it's not," Hardy countered.

"You've went and done it."

"No he hasn't."

"He's gonna do it."

"No I'm not."

"Do what?" Cools asked.

"He's gonna show you the drill. He's our resident shooting champion."

"Fuck it," Hardy sighed. The gauntlet had already been thrown down for him. "Okay, everybody grab a fresh target." They all did so, then latched them up and sent them back. Mike stood with hands hovering at his sides like a Wild West gunfighter. "Call it, Will."

"Four one three two!"

As soon as the last number was uttered, he cleared leather and fired off two shots at the rightmost target. He raised his aim and fired once more. He swung over the leftmost target and fired two more shots, then raised his aim for another shot. Next he swung back the other way to the third target and did the same thing. He repeated this for the last target. He then turned the gun sideways, racked the slide, and caught the ejected leftover bullet out of the air. Somebody whistled.

"Recall," he said as he hit his booth's button. The targets came back close enough to see the results. They all had three holes in them: two in the chest and one in the head. "Accuracy is good. Speed is good. Accuracy AND speed is unbeatable."

James nodded in agreement, clearly impressed by the display. That was good- his reputation was salvaged this session. Nonetheless, he left the firing range unsure whether he felt better or worse.

* * *

Jesus. Sorry it took so long but I had serious writer's block coming up with some satisfactory dialog. And also I've burned through all my prewritten material. AND I started working fulltime since December. As for other commentary, I might be playing up James's androgynous features. He doesn't really look that feminine except for a few pieces of artwork but whatever I went with it. Hopefully the next update doesn't take another 9 goddamn months. Happy 4th, if you celebrate that thing.


	6. Suspects

ALMOST ONE FUCKING YEAR LATER… Jesus, I'm sorry I took so long to update. I'm still working a full-time job with NO fucking vacation time to take this year (I also had none last year either between gigs), and I've also tried my hand at some Youtube videos you may be interested in. Part of my channel is reviving my website related to the lightgun genre this story's source material happens to be part of. I also review other stuff too, since just doing lightgun games post 2010 pretty much doomed me to obscurity. It's a new channel so I need all the exposure I can get. Link's in my profile.

Anyway, some more good news (or just good news if that other bit didn't float your boat) is that I actually didn't work on this chapter at all until sometime after January so it didn't really take me that long to write. I was originally only supposed to be there for like 6 weeks so I was expecting my contract to end any day, at which point I'd have a ton of free time again; I certainly didn't think I'd still be there over a year later. So I can safely vow further chapters will be more timely now. How timely, I don't know- I'm gonna still be busy. At least I'm pretty sure how the next chapter's gonna play out though.

As for some reader feedback response: good and bad news. The bad news is Fang isn't really in this story anymore- I actually had to think of how to slip a cameo in there. The good news is there will be a VC2 and he will be the main villain. I know this because I already wrote a bunch of it. It was originally a standalone story before I realized I had enough material to flesh out into a trilogy of stories, so it will become the basis for the second entry. Some of the material is actually repurposed for this story (like obviously the character introductions and entire first chapter.)

Otherwise, while I'm not especially happy with this chapter, I can't say it was rushed. Definitely need to patch it up later.

* * *

"Seriously?" Cavers asked again, in only a slightly different variation.

"Yes," said several of the other occupants of the vehicle.

"This is what a bunch of grown-ass men do together?"

"Yeah," Yoshida replied.

"And this is totally normal?"

Yoshida practically sighed. Hardy answered for him. "It's a cultural thing. So it's normal for Japanese, but then again they're a little fucked up." After a moment he added, "No offense."

Yoshida deadpanned him. "None taken."

The Lieutenant's voice came over the radio. "30 seconds." The discussion, such as it was, mercifully came to an end as everyone in the vehicle got ready to act. The target building was just up ahead. A trio of men stood outside, either for a smoke break or, more likely, sentry duty.

Convergence- another SUV coming from the opposite direction was perfectly timed to meet up. The vehicles flashed their lights and gave a couple whoops of the sirens as they swerved to the curb on both sides of the group. The trio started with alarm at the sudden activity, but quickly went into the docile shuffle of rousted hoods everywhere, obviously a routine they'd all performed before. Their faces all picked back up though when they saw the officers were jumping out of the vehicles decked out with full body armor and heavy weaponry- _well this is new._ At least three officers said, "Up against the wall." The men obeyed. They were quickly searched, relieved of their concealed guns, and zip cuffed.

Now the blues were pulling up. Leaving the detainees for them, the SWAT team entered the building. A sign stated the place was closed to the public for the next few hours. The lobby was occupied solely by the attendant, who could only think to put up his hands. They ignored him and hit the locker room. It was empty. Moving slower now, they scoped out the room. Some of the lockers were ajar, probably to allow for easy access to the guns visible within. Hopefully the targets had left all the guns in here.

Now it was time for the main event. "Don't get distracted," Lieutenant Hunter warned. They hit the men's bath. Despite the designation there were also a number of women present, presumably partners of the men. The woman shrieked and covered themselves to varying levels of effectiveness. The men reacted with anger and indignity, but nothing more, obviously being at a distinct disadvantage. SWAT fanned out across the room to cover everyone, not that anybody was likely to have a weapon. The total number of people in the room was between 40 to 50, most of them male. With the men all being Japanese, big, covered in tattoos, and very much pissed in the face, they did in fact all kind of look alike. Akira didn't stand out to begin with.

Hunter handled the question. "Where is Mr. Kurosawa? "

Several people answered… in Japanese. The responses didn't sound very informative. The voices got louder and the yakuza got more riled up, to the point where they looked ready to climb out of the baths and fight. Michael trained his weapon on the biggest troublemaker near him. "Pipe down or I'll touch up that tattoo with a little lead." Neither the gun nor the words seemed to intimidate the man. Around the room he could hear other officers try to talk down their guys.

And then, somebody else said, "Enough." It wasn't shouted, but still loud enough to be heard over the rest of the voices. Amazingly, the word was heeded; the rowdy yakuza all fell silent. He looked around for the speaker and settled on the one person who didn't appear to be the least bit bothered. Calm and collected, like a leader should be, he spoke again. "I am Kurosawa. You're here to arrest me? For what?"

Hunter spoke back- one leader to another. "You know about that shootout with your Toshihiro friends a few days back? We need to ask you some questions about that."

The clamor started back up, only to be silenced once more by single word from their boss. "I won't resist, but you've got the wrong person." _Smart move._

Hunter picked up a towel and held it out to Kurosawa for his modesty's sake. Kurosawa however pulled himself out of the bath and stood tall before taking the article and wrapping it around his waist. Somehow Mike suspected he hadn't missed the point. Groans and averted eyes went around the male officers. Burns whistled her admiration of at least one part of Kurosawa's physique. "Okay, take him," the SWAT leader said to the nearest officer, who escorted him back to the locker room. "Now, as for the rest of you… We'd like to check your permits for all those guns we saw on the way in…"

The ride back was peaceful. Cavers' only commentary was, "Okay, I kind of get it now. Shit, I thought it was just gonna be a bunch of naked dudes." The station was a flurry of activity: suspects and guns booked en masse, the former being sweated in interrogations and the latter being tested for ballistics. Noticeably absent was Kurosawa; the man had the clout to be cut loose almost immediately.

When he was changed back into his street duds, Mike went to the bullpen to find his partner. He found him in the Cauldron Room, nicknamed for the touch screen table computer it contained. It was an older model that was oversized and generated a fair amount of heat, but it still worked well enough for the department to justify not dipping into the budget for a new one.

"Kurosawa's not our guy," James said by way of bringing him up to speed.

"I gathered as much, but how do we know that?"

The answer came from the Cauldron, more specifically the person James had been speaking to on the other line, even more specifically Janet Marshal. "He had a pretty solid alibi. He's on the security cameras at a gas station way across the city at the time of the shooting."

Said footage was displayed in one of the windows open on the screen. There was their suspect at the pumps filling his vehicle. Or at least, one of them. "He's not driving the same car," Mike observed. "So he himself wasn't there. That doesn't mean his boys weren't. This just gives himself a nice airtight alibi."

"An interesting theory," James said, "but then why go through all the trouble to not implicate him and then use his car for the crime itself?"

That was a damn good question, and sadly one he hadn't yet got around to thinking up. "Actually…" Janet cut in, "I'm pretty sure that's not the same car. We've got the suspect vehicle going to and from the scene of the crime on several traffic cameras." An Image from one such camera came onscreen; unfortunately the quality would not allow for identifying the occupants of the car.

"Sure wish somebody had told me about those before," James muttered. Glancing over, Mike saw his partner practically rubbing his forehead into his palm.

If Janet had heard that bit, she ignored it. "There are a few things that don't add up to Kurosawa's car. While the license plates obviously could be easily switched, the car clearly has a bit of damage along the side, but Kurosawa's does not."

"Maybe he fixed it?" Hardy asked.

"If it was, they did an amazing job."

"Is there anything else new?"

"No, that's all I have for now."

None of this was adding up except for one thing: they were out of suspects at the moment. "Okay then, it's time for a different approach…" He pulled out his phone and walked away from the console.

* * *

After getting off the console, James found his partner finishing up a phone call. "Unless you've got something good, let's roll."

"Can't say I do. But where are we going?"

They had already reached the elevator before his partner answered. "To do some good old fashioned police work. I got a source from the Little Tokyo area. If there's anybody I know who has a suspect that I don't, it's him."

"He's a confidential informant?"

"That's right. He gives me info and in exchange I overlook his various legal infractions."

"Like what?" he automatically asked.

"Sorry, that's a trade secret. He's my bitch, and nobody else gets to fuck him."

After a short ride, the doors opened to reveal the parking garage. The pair walked past rows of both marked and unmarked police vehicles. His partner looked over his shoulder, then back forward with a slight nod. "There it is... _the car_." There was an emphasis on those last two words. The reason for that was obvious. _The car_ was in the distinct form of a Ford Mustang. However, it sported the full police package: VCPD paintjob, a mounted spotlight, nudge bars on the bumper. It looked sexy. And slightly familiar. James couldn't help but be impressed.

"This is a Pursuit Special," was all he could say.

"Yeah, it is." Mike agreed dryly.

"It's for _pursuit_."

"It's for _anything_. It's got a cop motor, cop tires, cop suspension, cop shocks... It's for chasing down suspects or leads. You name it, it does it."

Something compelled him to ask, "Does it transform into anything?"

"Not yet. But I'm thinking a 20-foot bipedal robot with ballistic missiles and laser chainsaw arms."

"And the department doesn't mind you freely using it?"

"Why would they?" his partner replied as he opened his door and climbed inside, "It's mine."

 _It's his?_ James had never heard of an officer owning their own squad car before. Well, there wasn't really any reason an officer couldn't own one he supposed. Then he snapped back to reality and climbed into the car as well. The car came to life with a roar. Upon exiting the garage, the sun bore down on the vehicle, immediately making its presence felt. He went to roll down his window to discover a hand crank that was decidedly not as fancy as the rest of the car. "Well, does it roll up its own windows?"

Mike looked at him deadpan. "Ha-ha-ha. Yeah... didn't think to ask for that particular feature. Shit, I didn't even know they STILL made cars without power windows nowadays. It's like buying a new TV and finding out your HD-plasma-LCD screen is a fucking monochrome. I mean, what the hell?"

A tirade on car features ensued. When it was over, they settled back into silence. While his partner occupied himself with driving, James simply took in the scenery, involuntarily spotting violations: jaywalking, speeding, not coming to a complete stop, illegal parking, just generally driving like a jackass. Once a traffic cop, always a traffic cop. When the scenery changed from businesses to private residences, he found an appropriate topic to talk about. "We're going to Little Tokyo, right? We're taking a bit of the long way around, aren't we?"

"I'm driving my beat," his partner replied.

"Your beat?" James inquired, intrigued.

"This is where I grew up. I've lived here since before there was a Virtua City."

"Ah. So these are your streets, then?"

"Yeah, that's right. These ARE my streets... These are the streets of Rage. I know everybody here and everybody here knows me. I cruise these streets on the way to work, on the way home, and anywhere in between. So everybody from the neighborhood knows not to fuck around here. It's all about community visibility, you know?"

"Right," He agreed, somewhat impressed with his partner's dedicated philosophy on policing. He made a snap deduction from dialog: "You don't still live here?"

"Nah, I moved out. My mom's nice and all, but I'm not gonna live my entire life in her house. Speaking of which, it's right over there." He pointed much further down the street and waved. "HEY MA!" There was nobody on the street though and James had no idea exactly where his partner was gesturing. "And that's my beat."

The route cohered after that. Their destination was just on the fringe of Little Tokyo: a shopping mall, comparably smaller than the average for the city. He followed his partner through the halls until they came to an arcade. It was a little hole-in-the-wall place with low lighting, popular in the 80's and 90's but quite possibly the last of its kind in the country now. His partner went to a man who was just watching the attract screen of a game. "You gonna play or what?"

"Hey Mike," the man replied as he turned around, hesitating upon seeing him, obviously on the cautious side. Looking him over, James didn't know what to make of him. He was kind of expecting someone who looked like a pimp, thug, or some otherwise obviously shady individual, but the informant looked like a completely average guy.

Mike preemptively answered the man's question. "He's with me. New partner. Name's James. James, this is my source buddy, Ezawa. Now let's find a quiet spot to talk." The cop and informant duo sat down in an enclosed arcade cabinet near a corner. It was only built for two players, so James had to stand outside, but that meant he provided further cover for the clandestine talk from any prying eyes.

Ezawa kicked the session off. "So, what do you think I can tell you this time?"

"C'mon, take a wild guess."

The informant's face went intrigued. "You're working all those gang killings going down? And you think I might know something? You know I don't hang out with that crowd."

"Maybe not, but perhaps they have some of the same interests as you. We don't have much on our actual suspects. We know more about what they drive."

"Oh, so they're part of _that_ crowd," Ezawa said, echoing James' realization as to the nature of the informant: street racer. "Sorry, but we don't exactly get many yakuza in the scene."

"Good, that means there's some. Then maybe they'll stand out. Our vehicle is a tricked-out bright blue Honda."

"Only one person I know with one… He is a yakuza, but he probably hasn't raced since he became one. I guess it's too unprofessional of behavior for someone in the family or something. Guy's name was Akura… " the informant trailed off, obviously racking his brain.

Mike cut him off. "Akira. Yeah, we already checked him out. Doesn't seem to be our guy. There's nobody else?" He got a shake of the head in answer. "Don't suppose you've seen a neon green Honda either?"

"Well, that's another former racer gone yakuza… but I thought I heard he was one of the guys killed, right?"

 _That's Yagi._ "Yeah, that's right. Never mind. What about bikes?"

"What kind of bikes?"

"Shit, the kind that have 2 wheels. Sporty ones. A whole bunch of 'em."

"Now you're looking for a biker gang? Like some real 1%'er types? You won' t find any Japanese ones here." That much was already known. The only biker gang in this city was the local chapter of Hell's Angels: white trash that rode choppers and trafficked crystal meth, but stayed far away from Little Tokyo.

"Okay, then let me just lay out what we've got. We've got a group of guys numbering at least around ten… Asian, presumably Japanese… Young… Drive sporty cars and bikes… and they're packing heat. You know anybody that fits the bill?"

Just then Ezawa's face changed. He could almost hear gears grind to a halt, then start turning again. When he didn't say anything, Mike prompted him. "You got someone in mind?" It wasn't really a question.

"Well, probably not…"

"Come on, just spit it out. I'll take anything."

"Okay, they're the only guys I know of who could possibly tick off all those boxes. I don't want to hype them up as your bogeymen though. They're not yakuza, just some punk wannabes at best."

"We all gotta start somewhere. Maybe this is their big break."

"Oh God… Those guys? Well, I certainly won't feel bad if you end up busting them for some reason or another. There's this group of bikers that I've seen at races before. There's more than ten of 'em. They're not nearly as good as they think."

"Got any names?"

"Patience, man. Jesus. I only know the partials of a couple. There's these 2 guys who are the leaders of the posse, either brothers or some other relation. They look alike and have similar names. One's Koji and the other is Shoji or Joji or something like that. They're hot-blooded too, as is everyone else. I even heard one of them pulled a gun on someone. They're shitheads, but they might be violent."

"Okay, they've got my attention. How can we find them?"

"I haven't seen them at any events recently. I got no idea where any of them live. At least one of them is supposed to be a pretty good mechanic; they have a garage around the Lil' Tokyo area. I've actually seen it before, somewhere on Arroyo."

"That's kind of vague. Could you be more specific?"

"No, but the place looked like the real deal. It probably used to be a gas station or mechanic workshop."

Then Mike turned to HIM. "Opinions?"

"Could be something to it," James agreed. "Even if they're not actual yakuza, maybe they're working with them as hired guns. It's definitely worth checking out."

"Your partner can speak?" their informant cut in, "I thought he was just there to be intimidating."

James was about to answer when his partner spoke for him. "Yeah, he spent five years undercover at a monastery. Anything else you have to add?"

"I've already reached as far as I could. Anything else I say would just be bullshitting."

"You better not be bullshitting me, man. I'd be very upset."

"Yeah yeah," Ezawa waved off the comment, clearly bored with it. "Hey, are you going to give me my game back anytime soon? You've been borrowing it for like, a year."

* * *

Mike drove down Arroyo at a low speed while James was on the phone checking out any defunct gas stations or mechanics. Finally his partner put the phone away and said, "Okay, I think we've got a place, just a bit further ahead. It's a former mechanics shop."

He was grateful for Janet coming through with the records, because Ezawa's description certainly wouldn't have gotten them far. The place looked like it could have been a warehouse, with nothing to suggest it had automotive purposes apart from the open lot in front. By now night had fallen and lights were on everywhere, except for this building as far as could be seen. "Looks like nobody's home," Hardy said, "but let's be careful anyway." They parked in an alley a block away. He grabbed a heavy-duty flashlight out of the trunk and they walked back.

The only windows on the front appeared to be boarded up, but they weren't going to chance somebody watching from some unseen hole. They walked down the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street like anybody else out for a walk, crossing over to go around the rear of the building. There were no windows on the rear wall. They went into the alley between the garage and adjacent building.

There was another window along the alley side wall, not boarded up. No light shone out of it either. Unfortunately the window was made of glass bricks that were mostly opaque, thwarting their attempts to see inside. The lack of any light inside didn't help either. Satisfied that nobody was inside, the officers went around the front up close but found the windows were thoroughly boarded up.

Walking back into the alley, Mike looked up at the adjacent building's fire escape. The alley was narrow and the stairway took up most of the space between buildings. Satisfied, he pushed against the nearby dumpster, testing the weight. "What are you doing?" his partner asked.

"Moving the dumpster," he simply answered as he began doing just that.

"Why?"

"So I can reach the ladder."

"Why?"

"So I can climb it."

"Oh, right, of course." By now he had already moved the dumpster into place, climbed atop, and was pulling himself up the dangling ladder. "Okay, how about what are you GOING to do?"

"What does it look like I'm gonna do?"

His partner said something back under his breath. It was mostly unintelligible but sounded like, "Something stupid."

Once up the ladder, further ascension was a simple matter of going up the steps. Coming up level with the other building's roof, he was pleased to see he was right about where the light inside the building came from. "Alright, there's a skylight," he announced.

"So what, can you see through it from there or are you gonna jump over to it?"

"As a matter of fact, I am," he replied as he climbed over to the other side of the railing. The alley was narrow, and the fire escape reached out over nearly all of it. He could almost just drop straight down on the adjacent roof… But better jump to be sure.

"Before you go ahead and do anything rash, I should probably point out that anything you find probably isn't going to be legally admissible."

"If I can see it, then it's in plain view," he retorted.

"If you jump onto that roof, then you're trespassing on private property," his partner shot back.

"Probably… But there's no harm in just looking. If nothing's there, that's that." With that, Mike jumped before James could say anything else. His feet slid on the roof's gravel surface, outpacing the rest of his body, sending him falling right on his ass.

"You okay up there?" his partner asked, though he didn't sound especially concerned.

"Yeah… But if anybody's home, I think they know we're here by now." A few seconds ticked by of alert silence. Satisfied that nobody was inside, he got back to his feet and approached the skylight. Damn; it was opaque glass too. However, on closer inspection the glass had been battered by the elements of either nature or the city and something had punched a small hole through. It wasn't much, but it was an opening. Pulling out his flashlight, he poked out a few more portions of glass around the hole to make it bigger. The pieces could be faintly heard hitting the floor below.

After waiting once more to be as absolutely certain as possible that there was nobody lurking in the darkened building, he stuck the flashlight in the hole and turned it out. Whoosh- a light from heaven shone down on the room. Sweeping the beam around revealed the building for what it said to be: a place to work on cars. There were a few motorcycles inside, although he honestly wouldn't remember if any were fleeing from the shootout. But panning the beam around more illuminated a very flashy car. It was a Honda that looked an awful lot like the car they were looking for, except it was red. But on the other hand, it looked like it had some damage along the side. Further sweeps of the room revealed nothing else of interest. He walked back to the edge of the roof. "Found something."

"I hope it's good. What?"

He didn't answer until jumping back to the fire escape and climbing back down. "There's a red Honda that fits our description inside."

"You mean fits our description except for the part about it being red."

"Yeah, but otherwise it's dead on, right down to scuffing along the side just like our hot ride. Unless we've got a gang of killer Honda owners, I think we've dealing with just one car sporting several different paint jobs."

James leaned against the building and looked up at the night sky, obviously thinking. "That much makes sense… But I don't know about everything else. We know these guys aren't with the Nakayama family, but are they working for the Toshihiro either? Are they really the ones who broke up the garage meeting?"

"Well, that's what we're here to find out."

"So what do we do with all this? Do we report it?"

"No. We probably can't, just like you said. We could stake the place out, wait for them to make a move. Once that car leaves that building, it's ours."

"Well, that's a decent enough plan, but how are we going to stake it out without the rest of the department? We're not going to do this all by ourselves."

"We don't have to. We just outsource that shit."


End file.
